Missing Books
by ElnaKernor
Summary: OSs and first chapters: 6) John has a bit of a fever and slips up 7) Mitch Wozniak is getting his memories back... and his name isn't Mitch Wozniak 8) Iris' father finds a familiar face in the Academy graduation pictures 9) 2006: Apparently John makes a more than decent terrorist 10) Dominic caught up with John, Elias and Marconi in the office, but he's not alone...
1. Ties of old

_So... I watched frequency ( the movie ) because I saw a comment about how PoI was basically the same thing ( saving people before someone got killed thanks to a knowledge the characters shouldn't have ) and that Caviezel was also a main character called John ( grey hair suit him better, but he was so cute as John Sullivan... ). Then I watched Frequency ( the show ) because I liked the movie._  
 _And now I can't unsee the double John._  
 _I explain: same actor, same first name, and when I don't know the borth year of a character, I usually go with the actor's year of birth. Meaning John Reese was twenty five when he enlisted; now, I wonder, what did he do before the Rangers? Well, my brain says he was John Sullivan._  
 _( Then I realized the captain shared a family name with Stan Moreno )_  
 _Of course, I had to fiddle with the Frequency storylines ( movie and show ) to make it all work, but I like what I came up with. No time-travelling radio, though ( not in this one at least )._

 _I probably use that idea more than once._

* * *

 _Captain Moreno's suspicious of Riley's subtle refusal to having anything to do with the 21st precinct. What she discover isn't what she had in mind._

* * *

 **Ties of old**

The first time it happened, Captain Moreno didn't pay it much attention.

She figured it was just Riley being dodgy – default setting, she suspected. Or perhaps the detective just didn't want to bother – that too, she could consider. John Riley wasn't particularly bad – yes, he was frightening, sometimes, and there was that Smirk Thing, as Fusco called it, and he was a pain to deal with, but he wasn't, per se, a bad cop – or, God forbid it, what people called a dirty cop. No, Riley was...

Well, Riley was different. The police captain was pretty sure she was missing something very important about him – like, it's only his secret identity, her comics fan subconscious was hissing in the back of her brain – and she was almost certain he knew more shady people than even the dirtiest cop in the country – she also had a feeling she didn't want, like, at all, to know what the man was capable of – but John Riley wasn't a bad guy. She was sure of that, even if that was the only thing she could say about him for sure.

So, when Riley expertly delegated the visit to the 21st precinct to his partner, who only grumbled – probably used to being his errand boy, even if Moreno couldn't say how exactly this was possible considering they had started working together only a month prior – the captain only thought it was Riley being Riley.

Nothing weird about that, since Riley's speciality was to be weirdly efficient in a roundabout way.

Then a detective, Juliet Tanner, came over from the 21st precinct, two days later, to ask about the same case – turned out it really was connected – and Riley's first instinct at the news was basically to hide under his desk – or, since John Riley was oddly efficient at being invisible, to turn around discreetly so that his back would be to the visiting detective. Difficult to say whether or not the man was tense, because Riley was also strangely good at mastering his feelings, but now it had gotten the captain's attention. Something fishy was going on here.

Moreno observed as the detective waited a moment, or, more accurately, waited for the 21st precinct detective to greet Fusco, before turning over and doing as much. As if he had been waiting to hear the woman's voice, to make sure it wasn't a voice he knew, before allowing Tanner to see him.

The captain might have let it at that, had it stopped there. Riley could be weird, secretive, and downright suspicious, but it didn't usually lead to anything bad – only, to the kind of things she'd rather not hear the details about, because that'd be a headache, she could tell.

But when, three weeks later, two beat cops from the 21st came around, looking for one of their usual clients who had suddenly moved out of his condo, to come over into the 8th precinct's streets, Riley made sure to walk out of the room quick enough not to be – what, recognized, perhaps? – there was no place left for doubt. The detective John Riley was actively avoiding the 21st precinct and its representants, and Moreno wanted to know why.

Granted, she didn't actually want to know, because she could tell there was probably a dark and sad reason behind it all, one that she'd regret knowing. But, it was bugging her.

And perhaps she didn't like being left in the dark about something that might or might not become a problem later.

Of course, she couldn't just go and ask John Riley to tell her everything – the guy was probably a better liar than most of the criminals who walked in and out of the 8th precinct. No, she'd have to investigate...

But first of all, she needed a confirmation. Perhaps she was making a big deal out of – too many for it not to be suspicious – coincidences. She doubted it was the case, but perhaps...

So the captain called her detective in her office.

Riley walked in carefully, with an attitude that somehow said "I assure you I didn't do anything, Captain, and even if I did you wouldn't know about it", controlled but not too wary, and closed the door behind him.

"You wanted to see me, captain?"

"Oh, it's not that important, but I thought you might want to contact the 21st precinct about that criminal they were looking for, and I have some files I need to hand over to their captain... I wondered if you could go there for me, save me the time?"

The way Riley's face didn't move at all didn't help in reading his reaction, but Moreno hadn't expected anything less from her precinct's secret James Bond.

His answer, on the other hand, while it wasn't particularly definitive in asserting his avoidance of the other precinct, did add up with what she had observed so far.

"Oh. Well, sorry, but I've already called them; I talked to a... Detective Jason Fletcher, I think. Is there anything else I can do you for instead?"

Moreno crafted an expert and polite smile, and waved him out, pretending to look back at her personal mountain of doom – or, as they called it officially, at paperwork – when in truth she was keeping an eye – discreet, she hoped – on his reaction.

"No such luck, eh? Well, thank you anyway. Just... go and work your cases. I like it when you're offering to actually do your job. As for me, I'll find a moment to head to the 21st myself... one day or another."

Her last glance in Riley's direction, as he was quietly closing the door to her office – quiet seemed to define him, unless he was shooting at someone, evidently – caught onto something that looked a bit like a frown on the man's face. Something made of frustration, perhaps, and a little anxiety. Maybe. It was hard to tell with John Riley.

This, though, she was certain of it now – this needed her to investigate. Carefully, too. She didn't want Riley to hear about it, if it was something personal, or someone to guess what she was doing, not before she got a clearer idea of the situation.

She waited for the next day to come, and went, early in the morning, to the 21st precinct. She did have a file she wanted the other captain to take a look at, after all; it just wasn't particularly urgent.

When she entered the place, only three detectives were at their desks, the others probably out chasing leads; a few beat cops were in, too, amongst whom one of the two from the time Riley had bailed out on his partner without so much as an explanation. A woman in her twenties, Raimy Sullivan, Moreno believed.

The captain almost went to ask the cop a few questions, as there was one possibility out of two she had been the one Riley had avoided, but the 21st precinct captain noticed his colleague and waved her in. Moreno glanced at the young woman, but the beat cop seemed busy filling a report; she'd certainly still be here by the time she'd get out.

The 8th precinct captain headed over to her counterpart, but bumped awkwardly in the desk of an absent detective, in a way that totally had her blush when everyone's eyes landed on her. A photo frame fell to the ground with the shock.

Moreno winced, and bent down to get it and put it back, hoping the glass hadn't broken.

Everything was good, she sighed – but her eyes landed on the picture in the frame, and her heart missed a beat.

A hand took the photo frame from her, and put it back on the desk. Mildly disturbed, Moreno managed an awkward smile at Raimy Sullivan, who had gotten up and come all the way to rearrange the desk, surprisingly. She didn't look upset, though a bit dismayed at the stranger's reaction to the frame – Moreno guessed she did behave weirdly, even more so for a visiting captain.

Moreno's eyes searched for the name on the desk, and sure enough, all this wasn't a coincidence – it all made sense, she was sure, she just didn't know how yet. Frank Sullivan, the name plate said. Family, probably, which would explain why Raimy Sullivan had bothered taking care of the photo frame in the first place.

Which didn't explain why the second man in the picture – Frank Sullivan, she surmised, being the first – looked a lot like a young John Riley, wearing the uniform, with the 21st precinct pins distincly visible. Only, John Riley hadn't ever worked for the 21st precinct – his file said so.

Good thing the captain here was an old one, who had worked in the precinct since long before becoming a captain. Maybe he had been around when the John Riley lookalike had been a beat cop with Frank Sullivan. Moreno just needed to ask – pleasantly, without raising doubts as to her real objective here, if possible.

She spoke for a few minutes about the file she had brought to her counterpart, but once that was done – good to know they agreed, by the way – Moreno asked, conversationally, what she in fact was burning to know.

"Any idea who's the kid next to Frank Sullivan, on that photo?"

The 21st precinct gave her an odd, considering look, before sighing and going to a shelf behind his desk. He took a book from there, opened it – there was a piece of paper in it, probably a picture, but Moreno couldn't be sure from where she was sitting.

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just, I think I actually met him here, in New York, lately. You know his name? Where he's assigned now, perhaps?"

The other captain shook his head slowly, and handed her a photo of the same man – definitely Riley, or his doppelganger.

"I doubt that, Moreno. John isn't in New York anymore, and I doubt he's even been allowed to continue working for the police, wherever they sent him. WITSEC doesn't work like that. He hasn't even contacted his family once in twenty years or so. Last we knew, the Marshals were complaining he had enlisted without telling them, and had basically dropped off the grid a few years later. Frank's almost convinced he's been dead in a ditch for some time already, somewhere out of the USA, even if he doesn't ever say it."

Uh?

"Wait, what?"

The older man sighed again, and it was clear he knew the story well enough; like someone who had been present when it had all happened. Someone who had seen the damage.

"That young man, here..."

He pointed to the doppelganger – twenty five years old, perhaps, hair still dark, a smile Moreno hadn't ever seen on Riley's face, and something in his eyes, something she did recognize from Riley. Something almost feral, begging to get out – mostly under control.

"It's John Sullivan. Frank's non identical twin brother. John looks a lot like his father, Conor, I think, and the man died saving people in a fire when they were eight. Frank looks like his mother... She... She was killed by the Nightingale killer; that's what motivated them, at first."

Moreno knew about the Nightingale killer, obviously; her uncle, Stan – a man of many flaws, but at least not dirty enough to let a serial killer go freely – had been working on the case for years, until a young detective, the son of one of the victims, had figured out the killer's identit... Oh.

"Which one of the brothers took the Nightingale killer out?"

Given the circumstances of the death – a detective attacked in their own home, their gun taken, and a slit throat for the serial killer – the name hadn't been disclosed to the medias.

Her counterpart winced, his eyes falling back on the picture on his desk – Frank Sullivan, his wife, their kid daughter, and his brother – smiling for real.

"Both John and Frank became cops because of what happened to their mother Margaret, but Frank wasn't completely obsessed with it. He did a good job as a beat cop, then Narcotics asked for him... John, on the other end, quickly became a homicide detective, at twenty-four years old. He started obsessing about the Nightingale killer, so much that even the ones who actually were on the case thought it was too much. Frank helped, but I could see him growing concerned with his brother's obsession."

Moreno could understand how frustrating it could be to be personally involved in an investigation, and not allowed to participate for that very reason. Herself, she kept well away from anything that steamied from her uncle's dubious arrangements – but she could understand. She guessed she was more like Frank Sullivan about it, than like his brother John – but she could understand.

And she wasn't particularly surprised to hear that Riley hadn't been able to let go.

"But John's obsession paid off, even if not in the best way possible. He found a lead, a little under a year after his becoming a detective, and followed it so well, he basically found the killer by staring him in the eyes, and reading his soul. He was about to get hard evidence and show it to the detectives on the case. But the Nightingale killer had read in his eyes too, I guess, because the man showed up at his place and tried to kill him. Fighting ensued, the neighbors called the police, and by the time we got there, John had slitted the killer's throat with a kitchen knife."

Moreno'd have made a comment about how she wasn't surprised it had ended bloodily, but it really wasn't the moment – more so as it had probably been the first time Riley – Sullivan – had ever killed someone.

She did, though, point out what was bothering her with that story.

"That... doesn't explain why John Sullivan had to go into WITSEC."

"Oh yes, it does. The Nightingale Killer was the nephew of a mob boss; bad education, I'd say. At the time, it was thought better for John to disappear... but now the mob boss is dead, has been for a few years, and his vendetta died with him. But John never came back."

He did, but apparently didn't have the slightest intention to let his remaining family know about that. Moreno wondered why, as she left the 21st precinct, lost in her thoughts. Had he made enemies he didn't want Frank and Raimy to have to deal with? Didn't he want to see his brother, his niece? Shouldn't he have taken his old name back? Did the Marshals even know he was here, working at the 8th precinct, actually? And why had he gone to work for Narcotics, of all places?

Frank Sullivan... The captain knew the name well, and not only because the man had worked with her uncle. The detective had done a very good job undercover as a narcotic cop, even if – because of her beloved uncle, once again – it had all gone south before the police could do anything with his work. Detective John Sullivan was decorated several times after that. Apparently, he also was next in line for when the current captain of the 21st precinct would retire.

For someone who didn't want to go and tell his family he was alive, Riley hadn't chosen the best position for his return to the NYPD. Moreno was almost certain someone like him had been given a choice as to his new assignment... Though, were the higher-ups even aware they had hired back, not John Riley, but John Sullivan? Perhaps not. Maybe Riley's file had been lost in the labyrinth of WITSEC – she wouldn't put it past him to have somehow made it disappear, as it was, for whatever obscure reason he didn't want to be John Sullivan again.

Moreno tried to reconcile the photo of John Sullivan and what she knew of John Riley – it didn't work. It fit, in a way, just so much that she could tell without a doubt, and not only because of the physical likeness, that they were the same person. But there were cracks at the seams – she still missed too many points in Riley's life to make it work.

What had he done in the army? And where had he disappeared to after that?

Who was John Riley, compared to John Sullivan? More controlled, certainly, not obsessed anymore, efficient, dangerous even – how much, she didn't know, and didn't want to find out – a good man, but not by everyone's rules, she'd guess. Strangely uncarring of cops rules for someone who had been a beat cop for six years and a detective for one year before going into WITSEC. His eyes still as dark – as cold would be more fitting, perhaps – but differently so.

Perhaps that was the reason.

Perhaps John Riley had gotten that job at the NYPD because he wanted to be close to his brother, to his niece again, now that he could – but he felt he had changed so much, so terribly, he didn't dare to go and see them. Perhaps he was afraid that John Sullivan wasn't anymore. That he didn't belong.

Moreno paused as she passed by Riley's desk on her way to her office. The detective wasn't here – what a surprise – but maybe it was for the best. She didn't know yet what to say to him about the 21st precinct, about Frank, Raimy and John Sullivan. She didn't even know if she should say anything. Did she even have a right to?

People always had reasons to do things – whether or not these reasons were valid, was yet another story. If Riley didn't want to see his family, if he didn't want to tell them he was here, safe and sound... Who was she to decide that he had to? She didn't know his circumstances, beyond the obvious. She didn't know why he was doing this. It was his decision, his life.

For all she knew, talking may only worsen the situation.

Besides, if she said something, she'd have to report it. Plausible deniability only worked so long as you didn't prove that you knew.

Riley's reasons to stay hidden could be sound, just as they could not be it.

Captain Moreno stared at her paperwork for the rest of the day, barely finishing a quarter. She didn't know what to do – not to do. She didn't know what to say – not to say.

She saw it, though, in Riley's eyes, when the detective came back. That he knew she knew.


	2. A fall through time

_The new identity Root gave him... It hit too close to home for John, perhaps._

* * *

 _Yup, this is literally becoming my new headcanon_

* * *

 **A fall through time**

When John opened the envelope with his new cover identity in it, when he started reading through it carefully, he was alone in his apartment.

He had given it a cursory glance as he had walked through the streets, but frankly, it had amounted to him searching for his new ID and memorizing his new name, date of birth, and the likes. Reading your cover story in the middle of the street wasn't exactly a good thing to do. One, because it could get you run over since you're not looking; two, because if you let go of your papers for even a second, which wasn't that unlikely when read-walking in a windy street, the wrong person could get a look at it; three, because memorizing the details was always better done in a silent place.

Root had assured him he could keep living at the place Harold had brought him, that it officially appeared as a family legacy in his new identity's background. Just, he'd better not bring his brand new colleagues around, so that they wouldn't begin asking questions – he had the answers, the Machine had made sure of that, but going unnoticed by his superiors was the best way not to attract Samaritan's attention.

Though, Root had added, she was pretty sure he would manage to get unwanted attention eitherway. John didn't know yet what was "John Riley"'s job, but he tended to agree that he was probably going to step on a few toes anyway. He might not be as hammer-minded as Shaw was – he really, really wondered what her official job would be – but, scalpel or not, he still left a lot of blood in his trail. It kind of went with his particular set of skills.

John hoped his new job was one he could at least commiserate with, one where his capacities would actually be useful – he didn't particularly want to be a garbage collector.

The answer to that question was in that envelope – as well as much more information. Who he was now, was in that envelope. He'd have to burn most of its contents, once he'd have memorized it, and hide what he couldn't afford to destroy, for fear of someone finding it.

To anyone concerned, he was John Riley, now. Just like he had become John Reese before that, and John Rykes even earlier on. These three identities, more so than all his other aliases, weren't only for the show... He was supposed to be them, just as much as he had been...

John shook his head, and pulled a chair to him. He sat down, put the envelope on the table, and stared at it for a moment. In it, there was a life. Just in that envelope.

He doubted his whole life would fit in an envelope.

What was official about him, on the other hand...

John opened the envelope again, and let its content pour on the table. There were a lot of papers, a few plastic cards – bank and fidelity cards, driving license... The keys to a storage unit, where he guessed Root had put the things about John Riley that didn't fit into an envelope.

And, his heart clenched at the sight, yet one more thing. It had fallen top down, but even like that, it wasn't hard to tell what it was. A police badge.

John reached out to get the badge... but didn't. Instead, his hand turned away from the badge and went for the stack of info on "John Riley". He needed to see it written, black upon white, undisputable. He needed to confirm what was Riley's job.

The badge itself hurt too much to look at, for now.

It took him a whole minute to find the right paper, and even with it under his eyes, John needed more time to fully understand the words on the paper. He could read without issue that John Riley was a narcotics detective, who had already spent almost four years on various undercover jobs, but had been recently transferred to New York – too many enemies after his hide in Chicago, it seemed; John supposed that'd work to explain how came no one here could tell a thing about his time as a cop before his sudden apparition. He read it without problem, of course.

It still didn't register all that well.

He... John Riley was a cop.

John Riley was a cop, John was a cop, he was a cop. After so long, after so many years, John was a police detective – again.

He... He wasn't sure he could go back to being a cop. For twenty years, give or take, he had been forced to forget everything about being a police officer. He had relished, in a way, with the lack of rules – or rather, the different rules, the need to always act out of expectations and still obey orders. It had allowed him to keep John Sullivan at bay. To keep what he had lost at bay.

John couldn't believe it. The identity the Machine had given him to stay clear of Samaritan... A detective. It was as if he was finally allowed to be John Sullivan again. As if he was supposed to be himself for once. He... he was going to be John Riley.

And yes, John Riley wasn't John Sullivan – John Sullivan was a former homicide detective living under WITSEC with the name John Rykes; John Sullivan had a non identical twin brother, detective Frank Sullivan, 21st precinct, and a niece, officer Raimy Sullivan, 21st precinct; John Sullivan had sliced the throat of the serial killer who had taken his mother away, the serial killer he had been tracking since he had joined the NYPD, the serial killer who had entered his house and attacked him in the dead of the night because he was getting too close; John Sullivan had had to hide from the mob boss uncle of said serial killer, which was why he wasn't John Sullivan anymore.

John Riley didn't have any family left, he had never killed his mother's killer, and he didn't have a shady past with a now-deceased mob boss. But he was as close to John's first identity as he'd ever get, John surmised.

And he was getting to be a police detective again.

But John wasn't sure – and perhaps that was why he couldn't bring himself to take the badge and look at it – he wasn't sure he could be John Sullivan – or as close to him as possible, John Riley – he didn't think he could be a police detective anymore. He had seen too much, done too much, changed too much. He had forced himself to forget almost everything about being a police officer when he had gone into WITSEC to be John Rykes, and he had broken too many of the rules the police enforced once he had become John Reese.

It wasn't that he didn't know how to investigate anymore, or that he had lost his notion of right and wrong – though, truthfully, his moral compass had become a bit loose over the years. Assassination did that to people, even to good people at heart.

John Sullivan hadn't been sunshine and butterflies either, for the matter – from the very beginning, John had been someone... dangerous, for lack of a better word, at least in potential. His father's death and his mother's murder had made him somber and, Frank would say, ready to snap anytime. He had always been dangerously close to the ones he chased, even if he had never truly crossed the line – not even as John Reese. There always was a sense of shame in him, even if it had been more and more overcome by an understanding of necessity as time passed.

He had been obsessed with the Nightingale killer for a long time, and once the serial killer had been dead, the darkness in him hadn't disappeared for all that. John Rykes had then decided to enlist, to control that anger – even if the Marshals hadn't exactly appreciated his idea, but that was their problem, not his – and John Reese had become a killer for the CIA – supposedly to take care of those who deserved it.

But John Sullivan had still been following a few rules, which John Reese had long since discarded. He also had a different set of priorities, now, and he wasn't sure he could play the part of the usual narcotics detective that easily. He had the skills, the instincts, the memories of a cop – what he didn't have wasn't an issue, because he had it all. But John had also the skills, the instincts, the memories of a soldier, of an operative, of a hitman – and he couldn't just get rid of it, even if his police-self wasn't supposed to be all these things.

Could he really pretend he was John Riley, after all these years?

Did he really want to be John Sullivan again, if not in name, at least in spirit? Did he want to go back to John Sullivan, when he wouldn't be able, for all that, to see Frank and Raimy and Satch and everyone else? Did he want to be this close to being John Sullivan, without actually being John Sullivan?

His hand finally fell onto the police badge, and turned it around, top on top. The number wasn't the same as before, obviously – he was John Riley now, he had to remind himself, not John Sullivan. But it was a detective's badge, and it was something John never thought he'd rightfully have again.

He turned to look at his laptop, open but off on the table, his eyes on the webcam.

"Was it on purpose?"

John didn't get an answer.


	3. You always leave the villain - chapter 1

_This is a first chapter, meaning you can find the (not whole yet) story under "You always leave the villain" in my works._

* * *

 _Before he was John Reese, before the CIA, John already made terrible life choices. While he is supposed to be a normal Green Beret doing his thing, the commandant secretly send him to investigate ( because reasons ) in San Francisco, where he meets Claire Grimaldi, lawyer, under the name Tom Kubik. One moment of insanity later, he's married, and ready to have a child... But his mission is about to end, and another terrible life decision from his past no one knows about is waiting to kick him in the face. With her husband accused of first degree murders by the military, Claire decides to go and prove "Tom" innocent... Except he isn't "Tom"._  
 _John's POV ( or what he knows, without it being from his POV ) of High Crimes, in a world where even secrets have secrets, and not everything the movie tells us is the whole truth._

* * *

 _So, let's see... Yes, I'm here to complicate John's timeline just a bit more._

 _This is a crossover with High Crimes, where Caviezel plays Tom Kubik, aka Ron Chapman; these two just became yet other fake identities of John Reese, congrats! The only actual difference with the movie is that Claire and Tom haven't been married for years, to make it fit into John's timeline._

 _There are a few mentions to the other parts of my headcanon about the Life of John Reese, which is mostly a crossover with Frequency ( both movie and TV show ); if you want details, read the other works in this series (See Missong Books, PoIxFrequencyTV crossover), but it's not overly important, considering we don't actually know much about John's past._

 _I've cut this story into 24 chapters, more or less ( could change, maybe )._  
 _And no, it's not a happy story. But I'm obsessed with Reese, and I'm making him the most complicated background ever, because reasons. Also, don't ask how in hell John ended up investigating in San Francisco while he was a Green Beret, aside from what's said in this first chapter, because I don't care if it's not plausible; that's why I made it "highly unorthodox" and unofficial._

* * *

 **You always leave the villain - Chapter 1: Just a face**

John was working on a project when Claire entered the garage / workshop. His job as a military consultant might be a cover, but it was a cover he was taking to heart. After all, if he wanted to find anything worth the months he had spent away from his unit, John had to look the part. His job was a cover... but his cover was the key to the end of his mission.

When Wilkes and Greyson had been killed despite wearing their bulletproof vests, the other guys had first thought they both had been unlucky – that they had ended up with defective gear; it happened, and that was unlucky, but it happened. Except it wasn't only one, but two victims there, shot almost through the heart. The vests had been literally useless.

John had said so to Garcia, and apparently his thoughts had gone around to the acting commandant, who had noticed a disturbingly high number of defective bulletproof vests, which weren't that bulletproof, in the gear they had just received.

Commandant Jarosz had him called a morning, to John's surprise. He was, after all, just another Green Beret – a very good one, perhaps, but that was it.

It turned out the commandant was curious about John's thoughts on the matter of the defective vests. He had said the truth – that it seemed unlikely the manufacturers had delivered so many defective products in one group, without knowing about the defaults beforehand.

The commandant had looked at him without saying a word, as he was pointing out several reasons why the situation was suspicious – then the man had pushed a document for him to look at: the exact number of bulletproof vests failures since they had received the new gear.

It had been high. And when the commandant had talked about it – the numbers had unexpectedly changed. The only reason to that he could see, was that the manufacturers had been perfectly aware of the defaults, but hadn't wanted to waste the "perfect" and costly military gear. And now, someone was covering for them, somewhere in between the battlefield and the higher office.

The commandant had then remarked that John seemed very knowledgeable in how certain... things went. A deductive man, really. With just the right skills to investigate the death of his fellow soldiers. Not skills his past explained. "I've dug around your file a bit, Rykes, and strangely enough, the U.S. Marshals Service called, kindly asking me to drop it. Now, I have no idea how a witness under protection managed to enlist, Rykes, but I have a feeling you aren't a stranger to investigating, and I need someone to go back home, get close to these freaking Keller Industries, and get me the evidence I need to make them pay."

John had given the commandant that special smile of his, the one he always used when he was definitely out of context, and didn't know what to answer, except something witty. He didn't think it was a normal mission for a soldier, and he knew he was right about that, but... The offer was tempting, he had to admit. The commandant had assured him that, should the unofficial mission be successful, no one would ever officially know he hadn't been with his unit for a time. Of course, the other guys would know, it wasn't as if they'd be blind to his absence – they just wouldn't know the real reason for his absence... and the paperwork would disappear in an administrative black hole.

This was highly unorthodox, of course, but John couldn't pretend he had always lived by the rules.

And so here he was, seven months later, living in Marin City, working in San Franscisco as a military consultant for Keller Industries. He had almost everything he needed to bring them down. Before long, he'd be back with his unit – medical leave, they thought.

Except...

Except John had made a mistake, and before he knew it, he had been married for four months, under a name that wasn't his – not that it changed much of anything, considering Rykes wasn't his birth name either, thanks to WITSEC. Tom Kubik – not John, this time, and perhaps that hurt more than his fake family name – had met Claire Grimaldi, attorney at law for a large law firm, only one week after coming into existence. They had flirted a bit – he was still trying to forget Jessica, and Claire was helping him with that; of course, she didn't know the whole story. Then they had started dating, and John – Tom – had never thought things would go so far, but after three months, he had just gone insane – that had to be it, because, really? – and asked Claire to marry him one morning.

It wouldn't have been such a problem if they had taken their time, like everyone else – John'd have ended it, broken both their hearts, after a day or two, realizing the mistake he was making. But he had been way too aware that he'd change his mind, too unwilling to end it, and Claire had been too much in love to question his proposition, not to agree with it: they had driven all the way to Las Vegas, and gotten married the very same night.

The next morning, John knew he had made the worst choice of his life – including enlisting again and telling Jessica not to wait for him. In fact, it was probably because of the choice he had made concerning Jessica, that he had allowed himself to be so reckless with Claire. He... hadn't wanted it to happen again, he guessed.

Needless to say his contact hadn't been overjoyed with the news – and John had been ashamed of himself; of what he was going to do to Claire, with his rash decision, his unthought desire to have a family, a normal life.

He'd finish the mission, and he'd go back to his unit, that he had sworn. Then, once his tour of duty is finished, he'd see... If Claire still wanted him, he'd come back – he'd come clean before leaving of course. If she wanted to be Claire Rykes, despite everything, despite having been led to believe she was now Clair Kubik, then they'd live together again.

If she didn't...

Then he'd disappear from her life.

It was John's decision – he didn't know why, but he hadn't been able to stop himself from proposing to her, and soon he'd have to pay the price, that much was certain. Perhaps he was too much in love.

That was probably the safest answer to that question.

Except, he was going to make another bad decision, and he still couldn't stop himself from dismissing the unwanted statement every time it reminded him of it.

When Claire came into the workshop, all happy and full of life, ready to go to the courthouse, that morning, as John – Tom Kubik – was working on a project for Keller Industries, she had a really tempting, very distracting offer for him.

She wanted a child, and he knew it. He wanted one too – a girl, a boy, he didn't care, he'd love them anyway. They had talked about it – each conversation on the subject had him forget everything about his soon-to-come departure.

They had talked about it even before getting married.

It had to say something about John, that despite everything that should have convinced him not to propose, that despite the fact that if Claire got pregnant he'd have to leave her and he knew it, that he couldn't get himself away from her.

It had to say something about him, and he was pretty sure it wasn't a good comment.

He had still done it – and every time he was with Claire, his guilt was pushed away, forgotten, in front of whatever it was that was possessing him.

John was all too aware of his failure on that matter, as soon as he was alone again. He couldn't do a thing about it for all that. Whatever was possessing him – he hoped it was love, and not only a desperate need for normalcy. If it was love, at least it'd mean he was being honest with Claire on one point.

If it wasn't...

The thoughts disappeared from his mind, as always, as his wife told him it was the day. As they started loving each other more deeply, if only for a few minutes, if only for an instant. As their skin touched the other's, in a moment of love and bliss.

Each time they were together, John could almost imagine he was Tom Kubik – that he had a future here, with this woman. That once he'd be done with Keller Industries, he would still be able to live with her – even if it took a bit more time away, with his unit, before it could happen. That she'd understand, that she'd wait for him. That, in the end, even if she didn't know it yet, it wasn't Tom Kubik she loved, but John Rykes.

Something he had thought about Jessica too, and see how that had ended...

He had left Jessica for her own sake – after having done everything to stay with her, after having left the army – when he had realized he couldn't go away from the battlefield yet, not after September 11th. He didn't want her to wait for him, when he didn't even think he'd come back. He had quit, because he had been worried she wouldn't wait for him...

And then he had gone back anyway, and told her to move on.

John wanted to believe it would be different with Claire – even if Jessica still ached in his heart – but he had to admit, things weren't looking that great. To begin with, he was doing the exact same thing he had done with Jessica, but worse: he had married her right away, instead of waiting for the end of his tour of duty, because he was afraid she wouldn't wait for him.

...And now he was worried that he'd leave her too, for her own sake, in the end.

These thoughts, they existed even as they were together, Claire and him – Claire and Tom Kubik, not Claire and John Rykes. They were hidden, drowned by the happiness, by the love – but sometimes, they appeared to him in flashes, even when they were together.

Then John was almost desperate not to let her go – not that it showed. He was too good at hiding these kind of things

When Claire left, to go to the courtroom, to do her lawyer thing, John was left alone in the workshop – the shame, the unease, the disgust with himself all came back at once.

He sat on the bench, under the window, and held his head in his hands.

What was he doing?

He knew it all too well, and at the same time he had no idea. He knew what, he knew why, he knew how... He just couldn't explain.

He walked to the bathroom, at the back of the garage, and went to stand before the sink. Water poured from the tap and onto his hands. It was cold, harsh – punishing. He passed his hands over his face, water rolling, freezing, onto, into his face; liquid blades tearing his skin open.

When John opened his eyes again, the face in the mirror was still the same – no smile, not ever again, not when Claire wasn't present, not when he wasn't supposed to play the part of Tom Kubik for Keller Industries. Just a face – a handsome face, some had said, but just a face nonetheless; without a smile.

The smile normal people could have on their face, even when they are alone, just because they are happy in their life... John was able to smile, even genuinely, but never alone; not anymore. He had lost that smile a long time ago.

Samantha had been able to bring it back, but it hadn't lasted – he had gone into WITSEC only one month after they had met, and he wasn't going to ask her to abandon her life to come with him. Jessica too – but he had destroyed that chance too. And now, Claire.

But John wasn't able to smile genuinely when he was alone anymore, not even with Jessica or Claire in his life. He smiled with his friends, with the woman he loved, and it was genuine.

But a lonely smile... It didn't exist for him anymore.

Not since his father's death, when he was eight years old. Not after his mother's murder, when he was thirteen. Not after what had happened in El Salvador. Not after a serial killer he had been tracking, the one who had murdered his mother, had broken into his apartment and attacked him – only earning a slit throat for his efforts, which had somehow landed John in WITSEC. Not after what he had seen as a soldier.

John wasn't even John anymore. Sure, he could say John really was his name – after all, his mother had named him so – and it wouldn't be a lie. But "John Rykes" wasn't his birth name, even if, today, it was officially his name. And "Tom Kubik" wasn't his name either, not even officially – but it was the name his wife was married to.

Sometimes, John wondered who he was.

He had had so many names, and some were more real than some others – John Rykes, for example, was real to him, even if it wasn't his birth name – but he wasn't someone who hid under others identities. In a way, he was John Rykes, and he was Tom Kubik – he had birth certificates to go with the claim, and the two identities weren't constructs; they were him, down to a T.

The question wasn't who John wasn't... But who was he?

He was all these people at the same time, because they were the same person – not only faces, not lies. The problem didn't lie with who he wasn't. The problem was, he wasn't sure he still had a name to describe all these people into one.

And perhaps that was the reason he couldn't be true to Claire; because she only knew one of him.


	4. A name for my grave

_John is about to end it - before Finch, Carter, Fusco. But he realizes he owes to his brother to be buried under his real name, so that Frank would stop wondeing what had happened to him._  
 _Of course, his suicide attempt doesn't actually happen, thanks to one subway fight that would change his life._

* * *

 _Continuing with my headcanon that John is also John Sullivan, though this time, it has consequences on the story (which makes it AU for Person of Interest, if only slightly so). Mentions of other Jim Caviezel movies ( High Crimes, Transit, Angel Eyes, Highwaymen )_

 _Suicidal thoughts, but no actual suicide attempt. PoI pilot, and just before._

 _I leave it to your imagination to wonder what would happen next, since Donnelly would know who John really is (part of it, at least ), since Snow would eventually hear about it, etc. Can be considered as slightly AU from the other oneshots, since they do follow the PoI canon story, and there John's choice does change slightly the outcome._

* * *

 **A name for my grave**

Truth be told, he had first contemplated just taking a dip in the Hudson – a final one, that is, but a dip nonetheless – and be done with it. Except that drowning wasn't such a fast way to go – fast enough, but not the fastest; he'd know, with the many lives he had taken.

And...

And just as he had been about to... drop down, he had thought of Frank. The only one who'd care, today, where he was – considering he'd still care, which wasn't sure at all, not after all these years away. The only one who, perhaps, gave a shit about him committing suicide.

Not that thinking of Frank would stop him from jumping, no, really, his brother wouldn't ever be enough for that, not anymore. On the contrary, thinking of Frank, it just hurt even more.

Because he couldn't go back, he couldn't go to Frank and his wife, to their daughter, and just reappear like that, as if – as if nothing had ever happened. As if he hadn't just disappeared from their life with only a goodbye. As if he was still the brother Frank knew. As if he wasn't an assassin – sanctioned, yes, but still a hitman. As if he hadn't committed more crimes than any of the perps Frank had ever arrested. As if he wasn't a complete waste of space, time, and life energy right now.

He couldn't go, and ask Frank to take care of him. It wouldn't be fair.

Besides, Jessica was still dead – and he wouldn't get better, not after that, not after everything else on top of that.

Last reason... Because while he was almost certain the CIA had never gotten his original surname, since he had made sure the Marshals had... lost – misplaced – half of his file, almost wasn't enough. If they had still found out about his remaining family, if one day they heard that John Sullivan had reappeared out of nowhere, they'd come for him... And Frank, Julia and Raimy could be used to get to him – the Agency didn't caution such actions towards innocent civilians, despite all the moral leeway the agents had, but it didn't mean some operative wouldn't make the choice for them.

Or, simply, they could get in the crossfire.

Collateral damages.

There was no way he was going back to Frank.

But Frank – Frank deserved to at least know, when he'd be dead. Frank had to be told.

He probably didn't even know whether or not his brother was still alive, not after Marshal Patterson's heart attack – the old man had been the only one to know, to care to remember, about John's new identity, and since Patterson hadn't had the occasion to find out what had accidentally happened to the paper file... John hadn't contacted his brother, not once in... eighteen years already.

Frank didn't know if he was still alive, but he definitely deserved to know when John died.

If only to get an answer, to get closure.

Drowning wasn't the best idea for that to happen. First, he wasn't sure when exactly his body would be discovered – no point finding his real identity thanks to his fingerprints, not with his... fiddling with the Marshals' files. The CIA would get the news about John Rykes / Reese, though, but that hardly mattered, since he'd be dead already. Second, the water might take away the few things that could have identified him – not that he had any left, except perhaps the custom lighter in his breast pocket.

If John wanted his brother to know about his death – not that he wanted Frank to suffer, but only, that was better than to wonder what had happened to him for the next thirty years – he needed his body to be recognizable, and...

He needed an ID.

Long before the CIA, long before he had learned to arrange for hidden stashes, John had left his real ID in a box, and Frank and him had buried it behind his brother's house. At the time, he had still thought he'd come back, one day. And Frank and him had been kids together – they knew all about hiding treasure boxes in a backyard.

Which meant he needed to get to Frank's house in Queens, without anyone seeing him – most neighbors had probably moved, now, but his brother and his family woud definitely recognize him, even with the grime, the unkempt beard, the hand-me-down clothes. Even if almost twenty years had passed since they had last seen each other – not that John believed in the whole twins crap-stories, and besides, they weren't identical twins, but John's face hadn't changed much, only his facial hair was grey now, and he knew he looked way too much like their father had. There was no way Frank wouldn't figure his identity out, even if he saw him for only three or four seconds.

He couldn't allow that to happen.

Fortunately, Frank still lived in Queens with his wife, Julia – John had checked. Which meant the stash was quite surely still there.

And, he could now tell for sure, since he was staring at the box, his hands full of dirt, crouching under the living room's window. It seemed like it was yesterday that the brothers had put it there...

But it wasn't. John opened the box, and yes, the contents had remained untouched for the last two decades. He had given back his badge and his credentials, as well as his gun, a long time ago, but his ID was still there, as well as his birth certificate, and a few other documents.

The ID was all he needed, really.

A noise in the house got his attention, and John froze. Footsteps walking down the stairs at one in the morning – either Frank was losing sleep over a case, or him or Julia was thirsty. One way or another, someone was awake, and it meant they could potentially see him – recognize him.

John slowly closed the box without a sound, his old ID – John Sullivan – in his hand, and pushed himself even more into the shadows of the night. The footsteps went away, towards the kitchen, he'd assume, and he started heading for the street, only hoping that whoever was up, wasn't going to look through the window – they wouldn't see anything else than his retreating back, but they might call for help, and if anyone was walking outside at this hour, John might have to incapacitate them.

He didn't fancy explaining to the police why he was robbing his brother's place for his very own ID, after having disappeared into WITSEC for eighteen years, why "Detective John Sullivan, 21st precinct" was dressed and living like a bum, and why it would be way better if they didn't register his arrest at all. No one would believe him if he said the CIA wanted his head, anyway.

Perhaps they'd think his years in WITSEC had made him paranoid.

And he really, really didn't want to explain to Frank – who was the police, remember – why his long lost twin brother was sneaking into his garden to get the ID he had left behind without even saying Hi.

How did you explain to your brother that you wanted to end your days, anyway?

John jumped the fence...

And that was it. He had his real ID again, all he had to do was to head to a bridge – he wasn't going to jump, no, but the thought was still there; he was going to die on that bridge. Perhaps he should... Yeah, he was just going to go back to his usual streets, get a last drink, and then, tomorrow night... Tomorrow night, he'd go and blow his brain up – against the temple, of course, not in the mouth. Where did people get the idea killing yourself with a gun was to be done by putting it in the mouth? – he didn't know, and he didn't care. He wasn't going to hesitate now, anyway, and he wanted his face to be recognizable if Frank decided to come and identify him – gun in the mouth could be a real pain in the ass with that, and when it didn't work... John wanted to die, not to get landed with a blown-up jaw, palate and eyes.

As for procuring himself a gun...

Nothing easier these days. He'd take care of that during the day. Really easy.

Pick out a thug / dealer / whatever after having checked they did actually have gun, wait for them to be alone, teach them a lesson, take the gun, and walk. At least that would be one weapon less in the street – not that the guy wouldn't be able to get a new one easily.

So John rejoined Joan and the other homeless people at their usual squat, the run-down building that had been forever for sale, his ID carefully tucked inside his vest. He arrived around two-thirty in the morning, a bottle of whatever-the-alcohol-as-long-as-it-contains-alcohol in his hand. He made sure not to wake anyone up – or worse, to actually step onto someone; he might not care for life himself, but he tried not to make everyone else's lives even more miserable – and went to sleep.

When he woke up the next morning, around eleven o'clock in the morning if the sunlight was anything to go by, Joan was starring at him from behind her trolley.

He tried just turning back on his side, to stare at the wall instead of at the older woman, but it obviously didn't work.

"You need to stop drinking so much, John."

For a moment he considered not answering at all, but he had the feeling that wouldn't deter Joan.

"Everyone drinks here. You drink. Why wouldn't I drink?"

"I drink, true, and so does about everyone here, true too. But you, John, you're not drinking. You're drowning yourself in booze. And guys like you always end drowning in another way when they start behaving like that."

John stared at the wall, silent.

After a moment, he wondered if Joan had left, but even if she could have walked away without him hearing it, she never went anywhere without her trolley. And there was no way he hadn't heard the trolley.

Indeed, one minute later, give or take, Joan spoke again.

"You're planning to kill yourself."

It wasn't a question.

Therefor it didn't need an answer.

John slowly stood up, his joints creaking unpleasantly. It was only september, and sleeping outside was already becoming a problem. What would it be in the middle of winter? – he didn't really need an answer to that question since, tomorrow, he'd be dead.

"John..."

He reached down for what little was left of his last bottle of alcohol.

"You can have my blanket. I won't need it again."

He headed for the street – never looking at Joan, no, not now. She didn't need to see the call of death in his eyes.

But the older, homeless woman grabbed his arm lightly – so lightly, she would break into pieces if he only started twisting, as he'd do were it a stranger, an attacker trying to get a hold on him, John realized. Yet she survived living in the street.

Human beings were weird.

John turned back to look at her – she wanted it, after all.

"Be safe, Joan."

There was nothing she could do for him, at that point – there was nothing anyone could do for him, really. He wasn't anyone – or perhaps he was too many people, each of them with too horrible a story for him to want to be them, and yet, each of them, so him that he couldn't get rid of them.

John Sullivan – fireman father killed in a fire, nurse mother murdered by a serial killer, couldn't even go and visit his brother and his niece for fear of collateral damages. Ronald Chapman – supposedly dead, and officially a murderer. John Rykes – former lover killed by her husband, years and years of active service, with as much horrors steamying from these years as possible. Tom Kubik – supposedly dead after having attacked his wife, since Kubik needed to go and John didn't want his wife to suffer because of him anymore, as she already had. John Reese – governmental hitman whom the CIA wanted dead because he knew too much.

No one really worth being, in all that – that wasn't true, but in the end, they weren't worth the risk he'd put on the people he loved, if he went back to any of these identities.

When there was even someone left in said lives.

John walked away from the squat.

What he needed, now, was a criminal high enough in the food chain that the guy would walk around with a gun... Or drive around with a gun in his car. John's eyes locked on a white man, around thirty, with freckles and a hard jaw, sitting in a costly car, waiting for something to happen – for someone to come? From the little John could see of the man, he'd say irish mob. Perhaps collecting payoffs.

The man walked out of his car two minutes later, speaking heatedly on the phone, and his right arm leaning over the bump under the pan of his leather jacket, as if to keep it from sight. Could do better, but not all that bad either, John guessed.

He sighed, took a last sip of his drying bottle of booze.

Two minutes and half a street later, the broken bottle was discarded, and the mob collector was groaning in a large public waste bin. He didn't have his gun anymore.

John, on the other hand... He tucked the weapon in his jacket – with his homeless outfit, it wasn't difficult to hide the gun from view – and slowly, discreetly walked away. No one looking at him would guess he had just attacked a gangster in an alley, and that was all the better. He wouldn't appreciate being caught with a stolen gun and put in a cell the very day he wanted to end it.

Either he'd be sent to jail – another fairly sure way to get himself killed, in a sense, but he also knew that, despite his desire to die, he wouldn't let himself be beat to death without reacting – or he'd have to explain what exactly he wanted to do with the gun, after having been identified with his actual ID, and then he could be pretty sure Frank would get there in the blink of an eye.

Which was basically the very opposite of what he needed.

What he needed was a quick, definite end.

This night, on a bridge – one clean, finishing shot at the temple, no time to regret, no nothing. Just, pulling the trigger. Only that. One last motion.

Pulling the trigger. Be done with it.

John wasn't particularly religious, and in a way, that was probably a good thing. Had he been religious, he'd probably end up in Hell, whereas Jessica was surely in Heaven. Religion wasn't kind on people who did what needed to be done – even when it had to be done, for other people to live happily, to get themselves their own future part of paradise. Moreover, John wasn't completely sure everything he had done was actually necessary – he understood the need for compartmentalization, but it made everything more... dubious, as to the necessity of accomplishing a mission.

And anyway, suicide would land him downstairs no matter his other deeds.

He still liked to think he had done a little good in this world... Yet these days it wasn't enough to keep on leaving – thinking that, perhaps, all the blood on his hands hadn't been for nothing.

It didn't suffice.

And anyway, it wasn't as if he had anything left to live for.

No reason to stay.

None.

But – he'd wait for the cover of night. Suicide, like criminal behavior, was usually better done at night – when no one was around to try and stop you.

So for now, all he had to do was to wait. And since he didn't want to think – since one of the reasons he wanted to end it was because he couldn't beat thinking anymore – he'd drink.

Drinking didn't make him happy, but it allowed him to forget. After a few glasses – a few bottles, whatever... – his thoughts weren't taken over by machine guns noises, by the begging of the people he had killed on the battlefield, by the sharp and clear sound of a shot reverberating. When he closed his eyes, no image of the dead came to his mind, no faces of the past, no dreams of a better future that he might have had – had he not become who he was now.

Had he chosen to take another road, for example, when the U.S. Marshals Service put him in WITSEC – or, more accurately, when they gave him a new identity, and he politely told them not to bother keeping an eye on him – what would his life be?

He had been young enough, back then. Only twenty five years old. He might even have gone back to his studies. Perhaps he'd be married, now. Perhaps he'd have kids. A good, steady job.

No need to be worried.

Though, with his luck, it'd probably have turned sour anyway. Maybe he'd be called James Clay, he'd be a doctor, now – but his wife would have been run over by a serial killer, and he'd have done three years for having smashed the guy's every bones with his own car in retaliation, and after that he'd have driven through the country, after what was left of a culprit who kept killing women and taunting him over the radio. Perhaps he'd be a Steve Lambert, a musician happily married and father of a young boy – but his wife and kid would have been killed in a car accident with a truck, and he'd be in complete denial, walking along his life without ever living. Or he could be Nate Seedwell, a real estate agent with a wife and two kids – who'd have had the bad idea of cheating a bit at work to ensure his sons' future studies, which would have landed him in prison for some time, and once out, he'd probably have been used then targeted by a gang, endangering his family and getting him shot several times, his ring finger cut off because reasons.

Yeah, that sounded like the disaster his life would always turn out to be, no matter the alternate timeline.

The low-quality alcohol in his bottle was disappearing fast, and John had to buy another bottle – no issue, he had also taken a few dollars from his friendly mob acquaintance. It wasn't like it'd cost him his life, right?

Around one hour before midnight, John staggered – he was though, alright, but with everything he drank lately, it was a miracle he could even walk straight-ish – to the subway. He wanted to end it on a bridge. First, because he had thought he'd drown himself, and even if in the end he was going to blow up his head, he'd rather do it here. Second, because a bridge was a place between two places – and if there was one thing John was certain of, it was that he didn't belong anywhere anymore. He was stuck in between.

What other place to die than on a bridge?

Eleven and twenty. Almost no one in the subway car – just two young thugs who barely looked at him before going back to their certainly highly dubious conversation. Better that way. John wasn't in any mood to deal with a couple of kids wanting to make fun of a homeless man, of an easy prey – or so they thought. More than one punk had thought they could start beating him up for no reason.

They had been unpleasantly surprised.

John was good at a lot of things – pretending not to care, sacrificing himself, befriending someone he wanted to bring down, if necessary. But taking hits without reacting when he was actually able to do something about it, that he couldn't do. Some guys at the Agency had been resilient that way, if only to appear weak when they weren't – but it wasn't John's case. He could, and would only control himself if someone else's life was on the line.

At the next stop, though, a small group of young men – fools who thought they knew how to be the big terrors of New York, but who, in reality, had never seen the face of Evil; naive idiots who wouldn't ever be the face of Terror, unlike him – came into the subway car. They started getting on the two other guys' nerves, and John could already say they were going to be a problem.

The altercation didn't go to hell, but when the first two guys left for the next car, the fools came over to John. These, he could tell, even if he wasn't even looking at them – listening was enough to guess – these would start something they'd regret.

John didn't even bother listening to the leader's comments – he was just going to ignore them, to wait for them to get tired of their little game.

But the leader saw the bottle of booze, and went for it – stealing from the homeless, so classy...

John caught his arm before the young man could even blink. There was a moment of silence... and he let go. He didn't need to drink more, after all, and the sudden rush of adrenaline had made all the alcoholic effects disappear. If only they could leave him alone...

Yet again, the young idiots wanted a fight, now – or just to ascertain their superiority, to see him ask for forgiveness. The leader came closer to John, probably thinking he was threatening to him...

What a joke.

John wasn't in the mood to joke.

The moment it became clear the guy and his goons was going to try something unpleasant – John went for it first.

It was a matter of seconds, in the end, and the kids were all groaning on the floor of the subway car.

John, standing, had a headache.

The subway stopped again, one of the fools tried to scramble away, and bumped right into a police officer. The cop looked at the thug in surprise for about half a second, then noticed the bleeding lips. Baton in hand, he handcuffed the young man while his partner ran for the scene of crime – a bit bewildered at the show, to be honest.

John didn't particularly resist arrest – but he had made sure to "forget" his borrowed gun under a seat on the other side of the subway car, after having cleansed his fingerprints as he could in this situation. With a little luck, the cops would think one of the thugs had lost it in the fight.

No suicide tonight, it seemed.

"ID, please."

John complied, as he always did any time a cop wanted to know who was the suspicious bum hanging around... and froze just after the young beat cop took his ID.

His real, oldest ID.

John Sullivan's ID.

He considered running for it – but he was full of booze, the cops had batons, and it was too late anyway. Running away wouldn't keep them from looking him up in the databases, quite the opposite, actually, and when they'd see...

John was almost certain Frank could get every cop in this town after his ass, and then there would be no way not to get caught. Not to have to explain. Not to expose his family.

So he just let himself be led to the nearest precinct – 8th – to face his destiny, as they said. Small mercy, he wasn't anywhere near the 21st precinct. That would have been awkward.

There he just sat in a corner, waiting. It was the middle of the night, and the detectives still working were all on a case, so the precinct'd have to call someone over. He didn't mind, after all, his night was already wasted, and here, at least, they had heating.

When a black woman entered the room, making a joke about how he could have given them a bit more of a beating, John just played with his cup of water. She seemed nice enough, in a no-nonsense way. He guessed she was around his age, beautiful and all that... Perfect poster cop.

It made him wonder if he'd still be here – well, not exactly here, but you get it – too, if he had taken another road, even sooner. If, for example, he had been able to let go of the Nightingale case. Would he still be a detective at the 21st?

It all seemed so far away, he couldn't even tell if he'd manage to act like a cop today.

But the point was moot; he was here, now, and he wasn't John Sullivan anymore.

The detective looked at him for a moment – thinking of a question, John'd say, but soon enough replacing it with another one, more interesting, perhaps.

More problematic for him, surely. Then again, everything was problematic these days.

"So... John Sullivan?"

He shrugged. It was, after all and before all, his name. It was what was written on his ID. If she believed him, or not, if she thouht the ID was fake, then it was her problem, not his – she'd see he wasn't lying as soon as she'd put the name in the database.

John was still easily recognizable, even with his longer, dirtier hair and with his greying beard – funny how his hair still seemed very dark, but his beard was showing all its greyness already, by the way; he was certain the grey would appear too if he cut his hair, but right now, it was just plain dark. Not that he was planning on getting his hair cut anytime soon.

Wonder what being recognized would get him.

"I'm Joss Carter. Detective, 8th precinct."

Thanks, but apart from the name, he had guessed as much all on his own.

Other than that? No answer.

"The cops who took you in looked up the name, you know."

Oh. So they already knew.

Speaking was tiring, and pointless. And John wasn't drunk anymore, but he did have a headache.

"When I looked at the file, before coming in, John... I thought you had perhaps stolen the ID somewhere, a long time ago, since, you know, it belongs to a witness under protection. Who shouldn't have this ID on him. And, more than that, the guy was a cop too. A young detective, who had a price put on his head by an old, local mob boss. Not the kind of man you'd imagine becoming a homeless person."

John didn't even bother looking away from the detective. He just looked her in the eyes, as if he wasn't even hearing what she was saying. If he didn't show any reaction – it told that he was controlling his emotions, sure, but not only – it meant she couldn't know which way he was taking that last implied question.

Had he stolen the ID? – or was he John Sullivan?

"The only thing, John, is that I've also seen the tape, and it's obvious to anyone who was in the army that you were too, and not just a simple foot soldier. Special Forces, Delta... And that, it works way more with the homeless situation, considering some soldiers have a hard time adapting back to a normal life."

No, thank you, he wasn't particularly traumatized – not about the army, anyway, even if he did have nightmares from time to time; not even about the CIA, as it was. Violence, death, and blood weren't exactly a problem for him, even if he didn't particularly like them.

"Now, WITSEC and enlisting don't exactly do well together, but I guess someone stubborn enough could get around that. So you could, potentially, be John Sullivan."

Not so sure about that, Detective – no, really, John knew he was, well, John, and he also knew she knew. The whole I-deduced-so-much-from-so-little game was getting old, considering he had a good idea of where this was leading. He had played the game too, once upon a time.

John Sullivan's fingerprints and the info on his new identity were all under lockdown with the Marshals, but other than that, his old NYPD file was certainly still complete. Which meant, Detective Joss Carter had seen the photo.

"Turns out you do look a lot like our former detective, John Sullivan."

Couldn't have guessed as much on his own, thanks.

The woman sat on the table and gave him a sympathic – he really didn't deserve it – look.

"John, do you need help?"

He doubted she'd give him the help he needed – a clean bullet in the forehead.

"There is no help you can give me, Detective. This..."

He took a sip of water – cold, and it helped to clear his head.

"... is the price to pay for my choices. And no one will bear it for me."

Carter tilted her head a bit.

"Not even your brother?"

Ah. So she had given more than a cursory look to his file, then. Which also meant Frank should be here under half an hour, one hour if he was lucky. Which, remember, he wasn't.

"He's a cop too, right? You worked together for what, five years? Did you know he transferred back to the same precinct, the 21st, after getting out of Narcotics in 1996?"

Of course he did. Because he hadn't given his brother any news in eighteen years didn't mean he hadn't kept himself updated as to his brother's life and successes.

"...And my niece works there too, I know."

The detective arched her eyebrows, high.

"But you didn't consider going to them, not even once, since you've come back to New York?"

John didn't answer that. He finished his water, and put the plastic cup down.

Carter took it away carefully, not to smudge his fingerprints on it.

"I'll just confirm your identity, if you don't mind?"

"Sure, Detective. Do your work."

Since he was here, since Frank, and perhaps Raimy too, would soon be here too, he could as well let the cat out of the bag. His work for the CIA had gotten his fingerprints on a few crime scenes – times there hadn't been enough time to clean up everything, times the shoot-outs had been unexpected; times you ran for your life, rather than taking the time to be discreet. Discreet could get you killed – the contrary too, of course.

At least, that way, Frank wouldn't want to get involved – hopefully. Or, at worse, he would know who his brother had become – a killer, among other things. He'd know that he wasn't worse saving.

 **oOo**

When Joss Carter came back from the lab, completely bewildered at the results of the fingerprints test – seven crime scenes, four countries, no less, and who could say how many more had gone unremarked? – John Sullivan wasn't here anymore. An expensive lawyer had come in and gotten him out.

Before they knew who exactly they were dealing with.

Except they still didn't.

The beat cop who had brought Sullivan in said it out loud, when she resumed the situation.

"... but he's one of ours, isn't he?"


	5. Twin scents

_Iris wanted to speak to John Riley, when Riley's dog suddenly dash off... leading them to someone the therapist would never have expected to meet._

* * *

 _Somehow it ended up being all in Iris' POV..._

 _No actual scientific reason to Bear's behavior, but who cares?_

* * *

 **Twin scents**

Iris Campbell was walking down the street – thinking, as often lately, about her most problematic patient – when her eyes fell onto John Riley, aka Most Problematic Patient. He was walking ahead of her, back turned, and there were more than a few people between them, but he had a good few inches over most of the crewd, and Iris would recognise that silver hair anywhere.

No, she hadn't been staring at it during their sessions.

Iris hesitated a moment – following Riley right now wouldn't be very professional – but she did need to remind him of their next appointment, since the detective hadn't come for the last... as well as for the two sessions before that. Riley didn't seem very concerned with his IA problem – more irritated than anything else, truly – but she could tell he cared enough to make efforts to keep his job.

Only, not enough efforts. He had slipped his IA-shaped shadow no less than three times since the beginning of the week, from what she had been told – and it was only Tuesday. He also seemed to always have something coming up whenever they were supposed to have a session, and Iris was worried.

Truth be told, she was a bit lost when it came to John Riley. Deciphering him wasn't so much of an issue – more difficult than with other cops, sure, but not impossible; Iris was good at her job, after all. The problem laid more with making sense of what she got out of him... when she actually got something out of him, which wasn't that often. The man was probably more tight-lipped than a mafioso under the omerta.

She was missing too many elements to really understand John Riley.

But here he was, walking only a few meters ahead, oblivious to her presence... probably.

Iris allowed herself one minute of observation, before reaching out and telling him – again – about their missed appointments.

Riley was with a woman, Iris realized, the both of them walking a dog without a word, but not without a discreet rivalry when it came to the dog. It was almost humorous how Riley's shoulders tensed every time the woman tried to get the leash from him – when it failed, the stranger shrugged and bent down, scratching the dog behind one ear, with a smirk for Riley. As if to say, see, you can't keep the dog to yourself, John.

If the two hadn't been so different physically, Iris might have thought them siblings. With the wide difference in heights, skin colors, and overall features, she settled onto old friends of circumstances.

The minute was almost up when the two turned into Central Park. Iris started to walk just a bit faster, to be able to call Riley out without raising her voice too much. She was only four feet behind the two...

...When the dog stilled, muzzle in the wind, ears up.

Riley and the woman shared a look, scouted out the park in search of a reason for the dog's behavior. Then the detective looked back at the dog, not having noticed any immediate threat.

"Bear?"

The dog shivered oddly, turned to look at his owner with a look of canine perplexity, sniffed the air, looked even more started, turned back towards where he had first been looking...

And bolted.

Riley, surprised by the sudden motion, didn't even try to keep a hold on the leash – though, from the little Iris could see of his face, he seemed more convinced that letting the dog go was the best way, and that, had he wished so, the leash would have remained in his hand.

The detective and the stranger looked at each other one more time, then followed the dog. It wasn't exactly difficult to, even when "Bear" went through patches of crowd, since the frantic run was startling more than one person.

Following the expletives and other expressions of surprise lead the two, and by association, Iris, deeper into Central Park. Iris wasn't sure why exactly she was continuing to follow Riley, but obviously curiosity was a huge part of it.

The therapist almost lost the two – very, very fast – at some point, but luckily for her, they were almost there. She looked around for a moment, then noticed the streak of silver behind a wall of other people. There was also a lot of loud voices coming from a bit farther away.

Was that some NYPD slang she was hearing?

Iris made her way to the final scene of whatever-this-was, and stopped dead in her tracks.

A group of police officers, some in uniform, others detectives, were standing there, hand on their weapons for most of them – but not drawn, which was comforting. The dog, "Bear", had... assaulted... one of them, which was clearly the reason for the tension in the air. Iris wasn't sure what kind of shepherd it was, but she knew police and other attack dogs well enough to understand why they had all reacted that way.

Except...

Except the dog wasn't actually attacking the detective, though the man was on the ground, under the dog's weight, and wrestling against the sudden...

Licking. That was it. Riley's dog had suddenly bolted to go and lick another police detective in the face, half a kilometer away, without warning. The animal's tail was wagging with enthusiasm, and the man under the beast had to stifle a laugh, to try and get "Bear" off him.

It seemed obvious, from the choice of words, that neither the dog nor the man knew the other, and yet... Here was Iris, witnessing one of the oddest scenes involving armed officers and dangerous dogs – and Riley, too, let's not forget Riley.

Perhaps the dog needed a therapy too.

The woman who had been walking the dog with Riley whistled, and the dog stopped his antics, looking up and back at the woman immediately.

"Why did you do that, exactly?"

Of course, the dog didn't answer.

Iris was beginning to think that perhaps, Riley's problems with therapy came from the company he kept. Speaking of which, she searched for the detective, wondering what he thought of the whole incident.

But Riley had frozen a few feet behind his friend, and was staring at the other detective, the one the dog had been so eager to greet for some reason. Iris frowned, and looked back at the man. Blond, short hair, about Riley's age, she'd say. Clear green eyes. She might have seen him somewhere...

Not with Riley, that she was certain of.

So why was the man so... shocked? And, to begin with, why had the dog bolted like that? Did Riley know the other detective? Did they have a common past? – yet another thing Iris didn't know about her patient, and that was becoming too usual an obstacle for it not too be alarming.

"Bear" jumped off the other detective, who, freed from the dog's weight, accepted the helping hand of his nearest colleague, before blinking successively.

The black detective, older than both the unknown detective and Riley, then waved three fingers before his partner's eyes.

"Alright, Sullivan? How many fingers do you see?"

Oh, Iris realized. Frank Sullivan. That was why she knew his face, even though she'd never had him as a patient. 21st precinct. Several times rewarded for his work... and with a period of slight paranoia after his undercover time in Narcotics, during which his dirty captain may or may not have ordered a hit on him because he was getting too close. The case hadn't ever been completely cleared, and the captain in question, Stan Moreno, had died later in the year, taking his secrets with him.

Now that Iris thought about it... She had been convinced, for some time already, that "John Riley" wasn't a cop. He was too... different, from the other cops, and even if from time to time Iris had the feeling there was something police-like under everything-that-wasn't in Riley's personality, she couldn't just dismiss the fact that, yes, too much of Riley wasn't a cop.

What if Riley and Sullivan had met while the other detective had been undercover? What would happen, should that be the case, as Sullivan would certainly notice the police badge on Riley's belt?

Had Sullivan seen Riley commit a crime, perhaps?

Iris couldn't think of John Riley as someone bad, but it was obvious that he worked with another set of rules. His moral compass was skewed, and sturdy at the same time – meaning, he could do much more than what people considered " moral", but unlike these people, his own rules would never waver, even when confronted with a terrible situation.

Iris had heard enough patients telling her about things they had done, knowing they were bad, but unable to do differently, because they, or someone they loved, were being threatened. John wouldn't let himself be broken like that – he'd rather get himself killed saving the day; which wasn't much better, but was still different.

All this also meant that the therapist didn't doubt that Riley had been on the other side of the law more than once.

What would Riley do, if she was right, if Sullivan had seen him do something, and it could endanger whatever he was doing now?

Frank Sullivan steadied himself on his feet, and waved his partner away with little care.

"Seven and a half fingers. Don't bother with that, Satch, just..."

Frank Sullivan looked back at the dog as he spoke, his eyes going up to the blank-faced woman who had gotten the dog leash back, with the dog at the end of it, naturally...

Behind the unknown woman, Sullivan saw a man standing. Still as death.

Not dead, though. It almost seemed to Iris as if the detective of the 21st precinct was expecting Riley to be dead, for whatever reason she wasn't privy to. The therapist didn't know why she was having that feeling, but... Looking at Frank Sullivan, this was what she deciphered.

There was a moment of silence, a moment without any kind of clear reaction. Sullivan's face did move, but too quickly – too many times, too many expressions – for Iris to understand what was going on...

Until the detective walked forcefully to Riley, and punched him in the face without a warning.

"Twenty one years, John! And not a word! Not even once!"

Riley didn't even try to evade the punch – which, Iris later thought, he probably could have done. But no, here, it was a choice. As if he deserved the punch.

Off-balance, Riley was soon the one on the ground, holding his cheek.

Iris started, as well as many of the other police officers at the scene, though some of them were starting to look like realization had just hit home. Like they knew John Riley, like they knew why Frank Sullivan had just punched the other detective in the face without a warning.

Not that it cleared much of anything to Iris, but the therapist wasn't just going to stay standing in the background, not now that things seemed to be going down – in what way, she wasn't sure, but she wasn't going to wait for Sullivan to empty his magazine on Riley, since, for all she knew, the man seemed more than furious enough to do just that.

Bright side, Iris guessed, "John" was really Riley's first name, since it seemed like he had already been using it twenty one years ago. Tremendous progress in figuring out "John Riley".

Maybe she was getting a bit too anxious right now.

"Detective Sullivan, Detective Riley! May I know what's going on here?"

Sullivan and a few others looked perplexed at her words – so, no, "Riley" was probably not Riley's true last name, but anyway... not the time – Riley winced at his name – thanks, more confirmation that something fishy was going on – and the woman Iris didn't know stopped petting the dog for a moment, looking back at her... friend? – at Riley.

"Yeah, John... What is going on here?"

The ghost of an amused smile came to be on her lips, as she let the dog go.

"Bear" immediately went to the detective – the right one, this time – and started licking his soon-to-be bruised cheek. Riley winced harder, glared at his possibly-a-friend, glanced for a moment at Iris, letting his mild surprise at seeing her there show on his face – she'd explain, she swore, but later.

Then he looked back at Frank Sullivan, and got himself back up on his feet.

"Frank... Sameen. Bear. And Iris Campbell, police therapist for the 8th precinct amonsgt others..."

Sullivan's eyes flittered down to Riley's badge, confusedly surprised – as if it made sense to see it there, and, at the same time, it didn't.

Then Riley turned back to the two women, and added:

"May I present you Frank Sullivan? Police detective extraordinaire at the 21st. And my brother."

Riley – John Sullivan? – looked down at the dog, who looked terribly proud of himself, and hissed:

"You traitor."


	6. NYPD slang

_John is a bit feverish, but still goes to work a number, and Finch sends him Carter and Fusco to make sure he's alright._  
 _Because of the fever, he slips up, and doesn't notice, but the detectives sure do._

* * *

 **NYPD slang**

" _Mr Reese, I assure you it might be more prudent for you to take the day off. Detective Carter and Detective Fusco surely can handle..."_

John shut the communication down, unwilling to continue the argument from earlier in the day. Especially as he knew neither he nor Finch would change their mind on that point. He was going to work, whether Harold thought it unwise or not. The numbers didn't stop when he was tired, so John wasn't going to stop because he had a cold. A cold was nothing.

Besides, no one expected an operative with a cold, because, obviously, sneezing could draw attention, and attention was the opposite of what an efficient spy wanted. The trick being, when you couldn't do it another way, to use the attention to hide yourself.

Not that the old grandmother he was watching today could tell the difference between a good operative and an idiot, but still. And, actually, that probably played in John's favor, that today's number was an old woman whose nephew was a bit too eager to inherit. He was slightly sick – nothing life threatening, Finch – and he had an easy number to deal with.

Not so bad a draw, really. He had dealt with worse – the case of Andrea Gutierrez came to mind; that time, he had been recovering from a gunshot, and the enemies had been paid thugs with a lot of muscle, if not much brain.

It was just a cold.

And, perhaps, maybe, possibly... John might be a bit feverish. Nothing he couldn't handle. Nothing that would warrant for him to take a break, and not save the sweet old woman – who was, he checked with his rifle scope, still tending to her flowers.

Her nephew had planned to pass by his "dear auntie's" in less than an hour, to fiddle with her power supply, officially "fixing" the air conditioner, and actually making sure the old woman wouldn't last the night. It wasn't as brilliant as the guy liked to brag it would be to his delinquent friends, and John could already tell that, should his deed happen, the police would figure it out easily enough...

Except John's job was to make sure the murder didn't actually happen, and for now, he didn't have enough to get the nephew arrested.

The plan was to repair whatever damage the nephew was going to do when grandma would go shopping, and then, once the immediate danger would be stopped, John'd go fishing for something more concrete to put the nephew away. He was currently wondering whether to go for the small-time dealing he suspected the young man to do, or to bet on his burglar tendencies.

John'd have gone to work on it, but he couldn't be sure that the nephew wouldn't finally decide on a more... direct... approach to his inheritance project. So he had to wait for either Carter, or Fusco, to show up, and keep an eye on the situation, while he went to snoop into the nephew's not-so-legal business. Something the two cops couldn't exactly do – Fusco might not care that much about the legality of his investigation, but the stocky man still wanted to make a clean arrest, when possible.

Personally, John didn't miss that part of the job, and shooting a few kneecaps wasn't bothering him as much as it would have twenty years ago. Then again, twenty years ago, he hadn't killed over a hundred people, and he had been a honest-to-God cop, not a vigilante with a hero complex – yeah, sure, there had been the Ron Chapman Fiasco, and the three / four years he had spent off the grid, and the seven dead civilians in El Salvador, but that was yet another story. A story he didn't like to think about, given the little control he had had over the events at the time.

So yes, twenty years ago, he had been a cop – a good one at that, if perhaps a bit sleep-deprived – who conducted actual, legal searches, and arrested criminals, but it wasn't the case anymore. And all in all, John liked the... diversity of action his current job allowed him.

If Carter and Fusco knew about that part of his past, though...

John blinked, brow furrowed as he wondered if he hadn't actually met Fusco briefly, before Oyster Bay, and after his time at the 21st precinct – something about an undercover assignement for the CIA, before they officially landed him with Kara and Mark? Fusco had been one of the detectives on the case... or something like that. What the NYPD detective had been doing out of NYC was yet another question. Right, that was it: the memory loss incident. That had been fun – not.

Good thing they had only briefly met, and that Fusco hadn't ever actually recognized him. That would have been awkward.

Not that Carter and / or Fusco finding out about his actual, and not part-of-a-cover, time in the police wouldn't be awkward. John'd like to see their faces, should they find out, though. It'd probably be... interesting.

John heard the number greet her detestable nephew warmly, which snapped him out of his memories of times past. His fever was apparently letting some things come back to the surface, and he wasn't sure it was a good thing. Next thing he knew, he'd be talking about the job with the two police detectives over a drink, and then, no way they wouldn't figure it out. Compared to him, they were traditional police officers, sure, but they weren't stupid.

John moved his sniper rifle a bit to the right, making sure he had the nephew in sight in case the young man decided to change his nefarious plans.

His phone buzzed. A text from Carter.

 _Where are you?_

John blinked, looked down the street, leaving the dysfunctional family alone for an instant – and, sure, Carter's car was parked just a few meters down the house. Finch must have sent her to make sure he wasn't burning up or something. Such a worrier.

Eyes back on the grandma and her terrible nephew, who was smiling way too much considering what he was doing with the power supply, John called the detective.

"Missed me, Detective?"

There was an annoyed huff, which didn't sound much like Carter, but the answer was hers, and definitely just as annoyed as the huff had been.

" _You should be taking a day off, John, not... wherever you are right now. You're sick."_

John was about to respond, but someone did it for him – Fusco, he realized, a moment late. What, Finch had sent the whole team to take care of him? He had a cold, not the malaria!

" _Don't give him ideas, Carter! Each day off he takes, we're the ones having to deal with Glasses' intel. Which doesn't entail often enough keeping an eye on an old woman and her asshole of a nephew; more often than it should be legal to, Tall, Dark and Stormy deals with hitmen and other psychopaths. Not the kind of guys I like to go after during my lunch break."_

" _Well, John didn't take a day off, and you're still here, aren't you, Fusco? Now, back to topic, John: where are you?"_

John smirked, and moved the rifle. One instant later, Fusco was swearing out loud as a little red light appeared on his tie – the same as yesterday, Lionel, really? – through the car's window.

" _Alright, Mr Happy, I get it! You're on some building's roof. Now get that thing off me, or I swear, I won't answer your calls for help anymore!"_

The red dot blinked out of existence.

"Sure you won't. 'To serve and protect', Detective, to serve and protect... Anyway, you do realize that because the light is off, it doesn't necessarily mean I'm not aiming at you anymore?"

Before Fusco could start threatening him again – pointlessly, of course – Carter interrupted.

" _Tell me you're not up on a roof, in the wind, when you have a cold with a fever, John..."_

"...I can tell you that, if you want."

" _...Which doesn't make it true, I get it. That's it, John, get down here, and stay in the car with us. One of these days you're just going to kill yourself by lack of care for your health, seriously!"_

John found that a bit undeserved. He did know how to take care of himself... And this wasn't a life or death situation, far from it.

Moreover, he wasn't out in the cold, as he had let it sound to the detectives. He was in an empty apartment in the old building across the street, and that made a good enough cover for the wind – except the broken window on his left, but what could he say? He hadn't been the one to break the window, was he? And that was better than a windy roof – the angle was better, too.

"I was pulling your leg, Carter. Relax... and no, I'm not coming to your car, considering the perp's plan is apparently not going that great, and he seems about to switch to a more aggressive behavior. Time to intervene..."

John got a warning shot through the window of the kitchen, which had the nephew startled out of his murderous anger – for now at least. The man let go of the frying pan he had seized – seriously? – when things hadn't gone his way, and looked around in alarm. The old woman, scared, ran to her bedroom – which was, all in all, a good thing. At least, that way, she was out of her nephew's reach.

Carter's voice came over the earpiece, outraged – damn, that woman never left him the benefit of the doubt, did she?

" _What was that, John?!"_

Calm as ever, John packed up his sniper rifle – didn't want to still be there when the police would come up there in search of the shooter, did he? For now, they had more urgent matters to attend to.

John thought the whole situation had an unexpectedly and unexplainably funny twist to it, for whatever reason – perhaps the fever.

"A reason for you to enter the place, and make a collar. I believe the perp is back to his first intent, and probably about to explain later that the shooter was the one who killed his aunt. I'm going, and when I call you back, I'll have the evidence you're looking for. Keep him warm in the box until then."

There was a silence on the other end of the call. Then Fusco asked, his voice sounding a bit surprised – John really didn't see why.

" _What did you just say, Wonderboy?"_

John sighed, and repeated. He had been pretty clear about his intents, and didn't see why he'd need to, but Fusco had a thing with questioning everything he did – Carter too, as it was.

"My shot is a reason for you to go in and arrest the bad guy, Detective, and I'm going to anonymously call you later to share the evidence of his criminal behavior, so could you, Detectives, go and do your job?"

John watched the two detectives making their way into the house, confident that they'd stop whatever was now going on inside, and headed for the nephew's house, leaving the call on. Three minutes later, Carter had the guy handcuffed, and was calling it in.

John smiled a bit – he felt a bit fuzzy in the head, but nothing really terrible. Finch and Carter really had been exaggerating the whole thing. It wasn't as if he had begun spilling all his secrets to anyone in a feverish strike, right? And he had even avoided having to fight!

When Carter called again, a minute later, and told him he'd better have convincing evidence to tip them off with, because the case against the nephew was still a bit too circumstancial, especially considering an outsider had had the good idea to shoot the window of the kitchen to begin with, John just laughed.

He was in an awful good mood right now.

"You'll figure it out, Joss! And, see, you didn't even need to call for a bus!"

After all, she was always complaining about his tendency to shoot people...

 **oOo**

Tall, Dark and Stormy hang up on Carter, and she shared a look with her partner. They often did that after either Glasses or Wonderboy just left them hanging, but this time, it was different.

There was some of the usual exasperation, of course, and Fusco wouldn't deny that he'd appreciate a "thank you" from time to time – though, considering that Spook and Paranoid rarelly got any thanks either, he guessed they simply didn't think about it. But this time, there was more than that in the glance they shared. This time, the exasperation almost went unnoticed.

Wonderboy had sounded very cheerful, and not only in the usual, scary way.

More than that, they had both heard Mr Happy's choice of words, and that... That had spooked Fusco, like, a lot. He'd bet Carter was just as unnerved, too, despite her poker face.

As a uniformed cop took their perp away, Fusco voiced his unease.

"That was NYPD slang, wasn't it?"

Carter gave him a long, meaningful look.

"I thought I had dreamed it for a minute, so you reassure me... Though the implications don't."

They both looked at the building Reese had been stationed in in silence.

"Do you think he was...?"

"Nah..."

Both of them didn't believe that last conclusion – but it made more sense than the alternative.


	7. Known again

_Mitch Wozniak still has some memories to retrieve, for it all to make sense. Like, why "Mitch Wozniak" doesn't feel really like it's actually his name._

 _(Truth is, he's a CIA agent undercover as a cop undercover as a criminal who used to be a cop and... Well, it's complicated. you can't blame him for being lost after having forgotten everything for a time.)_

* * *

 _Aaaand another one in the LETSMAKEAPASTFORJOHNREESE, officially known as "One Life in many names"!_

 _This time, I'm saying that the movie Unknown ( 2006 ) is yet another layer of John Reese's past._  
 _I mean, come on, we're talking about a movie in which the main characters all lose their memories for some time, and try to figure out who they were, with plot twists and all that. How could I not add yet another layer ( or two. Or ten ) to the revelations?_

 _Besides, that allowed me to write several moments of John's past in one OS._

 _Which means that, in the end, this OS has High Crimes, Frequency ( movie and TV show ), Unknown on top of PoI_

 _\- Chronologically: John Sullivan is Ron Chapman ( is John Sullivan again ) is John Rykes is Mitch Wozniak ( and we stop the OS right before he becomes John Reese )_

* * *

 **Known again**

Mitch Wozniak – he wasn't entirely sure yet his name was Mitch Wozniak, but everyone said so, it had to be true – woke up around five in the morning, in a sad, impersonal motel room. The man was almost certain he wouldn't usually mind, but right now, it felt too much like him – impersonal.

The day before, he had been exposed to a chemical product that had temporarily erased his memory, and caused his assignment to go sideways, to say the least. From what he could now remember, he was a narcotics detective who had gone deep undercover for the last months; he had used the assignment to... forget... about his dead daughter? His... wife... had left him, perhaps... He was still a bit fuzzy about the details. Mostly images and scenes of life had come back to him, and he still needed to weave the memories together, to get the situations right.

He tried to focus, at least on what he knew already, to make it make sense.

The story so far was that... His wife had left him when he had made detective, they had shared custody of their daughter, but the child had asthma, and one day she hadn't... Something heavy hit him in the guts, and the man recoiled. It felt like grief, he realized, but it didn't feel much like the kind of grief you'd have when you lost your daughter. More... subdued, perhaps. He could remember the panic, the guilt as Erin had been dying in his arms, as he had given her over to the hospital staff, only to be told they had lost her – it was strong, and crushing. But the lingering feeling behind it all... It didn't feel like he had lost a child.

 _Yes it did, but not this time._

Mitch Wozniak winced, and tried to get out of bed. What he needed was a clear mind, was to take a shower, eat something, and go back to sorting through the returning memories.

He had accepted the undercover job because he wanted to get away, not to think about Erin, he remembered – but it sounded to him more like a role he had to recite and play, a story he could feel in his bones, true, but not his story for all of that.

For a moment, he feared that yes, he was Mitch Wozniak, but perhaps Mitch Wozniak had a problem of some kind. Was he insensitive? Had he been trying to figure out how he should feel about his daughter's death, because he didn't actually feel it? Didn't he have emotions? Maybe... Maybe he felt like it was all roleplay, not because it wasn't truly his life, but because he was a sociopath of some kind? Because he had tried very hard to appear normal, making it up as the feelings didn't come, but now that he didn't remember, it didn't make sense? Could he do empathy?

He felt like he could, though.

It just stayed very quiet outwardly.

Mitch Wozniak resumed walking, his eyes on the suitcase in the corner of the motel room. He needed fresh clothes. His clothes were in the suitcase.

The assignment... Infiltrating Burian's operations. Drugs, abductions for ransom, the occasional murder... A bit of everything, frankly. Mitch Wozniak – strangely enough, he couldn't help but to think of himself as the full name, not just the first name – knew one of Burian's guys. They had been childhood friends, but they hadn't seen each other in a long time, hence why the guy had no idea he was a cop. Which was why they had asked him to go undercover...

The man searched for a clean shirt, and denim pants. He was still aching from the fall the day before, and the various other physical shocks he had endured while the five of them, all temporarily amnesic, had tried to figure out who was who and who had abducted who.

Only two of them had made it out, he thought gloomily. Way to start his return to the light...

Especially as the only other survivor was the man whom wife Mitch Wozniak had apparently been fooling around with in secret. His memories seemed to be indicating that the undercover cop had gone bad, and orchestrated the whole abduction. Kill Burian, take the ransom, kill the victims – maybe let the friend live, though, he wasn't a monster – and disappear with the wife, Eliza.

The simple thought was making him sick, now.

How could he have possibly wanted that?

But the other survivor, the husband... William Coles. He had told him, when they were both struggling with their memory, that what mattered, now, was what they did even without the knowledge of the circumstances. That they'd be the people they wanted to become, no matter if they had been the kidnappers or the victims, if only they proved it with their actions.

And ultimately, even if Mitch Wozniak had remembered the real circumstances of the abduction, his plan to get rid of the husband... He had decided to forget it. To give the money back, even when everything was still a mess, and he and the wife could have walked out with the ransom discreetly. Even as she had been looking at him with that hope in her eyes.

He hoped that meant something about him. That he wasn't completely irredeemable.

The man leaned against a wall, his eyes closed, clothes in hand, as the memories he had already gotten back fell right in place. Now all he missed was everything else.

The medic had said he would be back to normal before twenty-four hours, and that a good night of rest would probably speed it up. It had happened about fifteen hours ago...

He still had some memories to gain back, then.

Mitch Wozniak pushed the door to the bathroom open, but...

 **oOo**

" _As for you, Rykes, word out there is that we're loaning you to the police for a time. Smile, you're Mitch Wozniak, New Mexico, for the next few months."_

 _He blinked, slowly._

" _Why?"_

 _His former instructor shrugged – curious, sure, but not particularly interested either._

" _Weirder things have happened in the Agency, you know. For what it's worth, I've been told you've caught the attention of a particuliar division, but its boss is still considering a few things, perhaps taking his time to make sure you're what he wants. Also, they can't seem to decide what official name you'll be taking when your definitive assignment is approved, if you even need one. Something to do with how 'John Rykes' is officially in WITSEC and the marshal in charge is being a tough guy to crack?"_

 _John grunted something that might have been an answer, or a rude rebuke, depending on which side of the raimbow you stood under. The other CIA agent wisely decided it mostly meant that whatever secret was in his former student's past, protected by the U.S. Marshals Service, it really wasn't his business._

" _Anyway... What I mean is, from now on you are a narcotics detective meant to go undercover to get rid of Stefan Burian, a moderately important crime boss in the state of New Mexico. Burian also happens to have information on the location of someone the Agency'd really like to get to. So you'll be working for both the police and us at the same time. Isn't that brilliant?"_

 _John snorted quietly, his eyes on the Farm. He didn't think he'd ever see the place again._

" _Why me?"_

 _The instructor wrinkled his nose._

" _For reasons I'm not privy to, you are apparently just perfect for the role."_

 _It would have made John laught, if he didn't want to keep his past a secret, as much as possible. He had a pretty good idea of why him..._

 _He just hoped the number of people who knew it too was tight enough._

 **oOo**

Mitch Wozniak – or John... But was it even his name? The CIA agent in this memory had said he was – had been? – in WITSEC, so could he really assume that John was truly his first name?

More than that...

If he was this John Rykes... Then who was Erin? Was she really his dead daughter?

...Was she the reason he wasn't a cop anymore? He had distinct memories of being a policeman, of that much he was sure. Him, in a patrol car, when he was younger, sporting the uniform... But that wasn't the only uniform he had worn in his life, was it?

He didn't remember.

John – he'd go with that for now – walked into the bathroom, and looked himself in the mirror. He had fallen asleep fully clothed, and looked even more rumpled than the last time he had woken up that he remembered – meaning, after the gaz that had taken away his memory.

The man started to undress, but stopped as he felt an abrasive pain in his back. Ah. The fall from the window, the day before. Easily five, six meters, and he was alive and in one piece only because he had fallen on something other than the hard floor. He resumed unclothing.

John turned around, and looked at his backside using the mirror. Large bruise on the top, another one down left. Bordering on purple. Just great.

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, and his eyes locked with the mystery man's.

Who was he, exactly? Mitch Wozniak? John Rykes? Someone else entirely?

Or, perhaps, an addition of them all.

To know that, he needed to figure out who they were first.

 **oOo**

 _Gunfire. Orders screamed, a quick retreat. Soon, another attack to expect. Be ready to bring victory back with you, Boys, even if you have to bring it back using your teeth._

 _Another man – army ranger gear – gave him a lopsided grin, without much true humor remaining behind it. Tired._

" _You hear that, Rykes? You can hear how he's not the one going under the flying bullets just from the way he's encouraging us to become cannon fodder."_

 _He shrugged, not disagreeing, but not really seeing the point of arguing about it either._

 _Then again, his fellow soldiers used to say he was disturbingly self-sacrificial, even if he wasn't outright sucidal. Perhaps that was why he didn't see the point..._

 **oOo**

John shook his head slowly, as if it'd clear his brain – it didn't.

He entered the shower, and started to run the water. It went down his skin, taking away the grime from the day before. The sweat, the dust, the dried blood, too – not that much, but just enough for it to be disgusting.

The water ran down the tube and disappeared into the plumbing, leaving brown-grey streaks in its wake. He'd have to clean the bathtube, once he'd be clean himself.

It was alright. He was used to it.

Of course, he liked it better when he was clean, but years in the army had taught him to deal with filth. The US Army Rangers, of course. The battlefields. But not only that. He had a feeling he had moved through several armed corps. First the infantry, then the rangers...

He closed his eyes, letting the pounding of the cold water against his skin drown any other sound.

1993 to 2005, twelve years. Infantry, rangers, green berets, delta force. But also 1985 to 1988, Marine Corps. Not officially, though; it was a secret. At the time, he hadn't been using his real name either. That's why they didn't know he had been in two very different branches.

Something...

Someone had caused him to leave the marines in a hurry. Wrong medication. El Salvador. Nine dead civilians. Their blood on his hands, and no one to defend him. No one to tell them what had really happened...

John's eyes started open, and he found he was breathing heavily. The water was freezing, and pounding against his bruises painfully. He cut it, and started using soap. To wash out the grime.

To wash out his crimes.

He wasn't sure it could really be done.

 **oOo**

 _The motel room, dark. Late in the night. Him, sitting on the bed, a book in hand, but not really reading. Thinking._

 _Thinking about Eliza, and what she had suggested, in between two kisses. That they could get away, far, far away from her husband, and for him, far from his depressing past, if only they had enough money. Enough money. Just like her husband had._

 _John couldn't pretend the suggestion hadn't been a hard blow. There was so much he could leave behind, just like that, if he took her proposition... If he came up with a plan, just like he knew would work, because, hell, he was CIA, and he had been a police detective before that. He knew how to fake an accident, or how to plan a crime._

 _So much pain, so many regrets, gone with just one abduction and a ransom._

 _Except he didn't love Eliza. He liked her enough – that is, until she suggested that, because that suggestion, in his eyes, was a big red warning flag. But he didn't love her. He had gone into this relationship for two reasons: casual benefits, just like her at first, and because she knew a few important people around here. Working himself into Stefan Burian's good graces was one of the ways to get close to the CIA's target, but if he could get confirmation from other sources, it was even better._

 _If Eliza had moved onto something more... emotional, it wasn't his case._

 _Still, there was something in the idea of suggesting a good plan to Burian that was gnawing at him, and he didn't exactly know what it was for now. Which was the reason he hadn't outright said no._

 _His cellphone beeped, and John glanced at the time on his nightstand._

 _10:30 already. Kinnear was checking in._

 _John picked up._

" _If it's about my pizza, it's the same as last week: I didn't order anything."_

 _A dry laugh responded on the other end of the phone call._

"Not even with pepperoni, John?"

" _Depends, would you bring it yourself?"_

"Why, you're missing my award-winning smile?"

 _Agent Kinnear had lost two front teeth on a mission in Budapest years ago._

" _Not particularly. Listen, Kinnear, I need a big case to win over Burian's trust rapidly. If I go on like this, it could take ten more months before he even considers bringing me to one of his meetings with Blas."_

"And so what? You have a proposition? Because if you can cook up a plan where you don't endanger civilians, can get away with it concerning the police you're supposed to work for, and still commit a crime big enough for Burian to consider you trustworthy, the Agency's all for it."

 _John winced in his phone, and apparently it went through the call, because Kinnear reacted right away._

"You do have a plan, don't you?"

" _Well... I'm not so sure about the 'no harm comes to civilians' part, you see...?"_

"Say it, and we'll see if we can make it less... dangerous."

" _You remember Eliza Coles? Of course you remember Eliza Coles. She suggested that I might, how do I say that? – speed up her husband's demise, so that we get the money and go away in the sunshine, preferably with the money from a millions-worth ransom. And I was thinking, that's exactly the kind of move that might get me in Burian's good graces... A quick, clean abduction, not many civilians involved, and easy money."_

 _There was a time of silence on the other side of the phone call, and John could tell that Kinnear had no issue seeing where was the problem in that plan._

"Except you'd have to follow through with the abduction, which would put the civilians in more-than-harm's way. Unless Burian takes you to see Blas beforehand, having judged you worthy of his trust just because of the idea, in which case you could just off him and deliver his goons to the police before anything go further... Which is kind of unlikely to happen, you'll admit."

" _Exactly, and knowing Stefan Burian, the victims wouldn't be freed even if the Coles pay the ransom. I could still say I killed them, and let them get away instead, but it's still very dangerous. William Coles might be killed in the struggle, or even after that..."_

"...Do it. I don't know how you do that, John, but I do know that you can keep the casualties to a minimum. Meaning, Burian and his guys, if need be. We've gotten enough intel thanks to you to limit the area where Blas could be hiding, if you don't manage to keep him alive. We'll have him in less than a month, I can guarantee that, and while it'd be great to get an exact location..."

" _You can do without. Alright. Well, next week, Kinnear. I've got an abduction to draft."_

 **oOo**

He let the water run again, washing away the soap, and yet more filth.

So that was what had happened... It hadn't exactly gone down the way Kinnear and him had hoped it would go. One civilian dead, Richard McCain, and his childhood friend – what was his name again? Anthony, perhaps – dead too. John had hoped he'd manage to at least spare Anthony's life, but...

He frowned, as he walked out of the shower, blindly reaching for a towel.

Anthony should have known his name wasn't Mitch Wozniak, no? If they had known each other since they were kids... Then again, criminals changed names frequently enough. Anthony had probably assumed he had gotten into trouble with someone dangerous back home, in New York, and...

Was New York the city he had grown up in?

John concealed a wince as the towel rubbed badly on his bruises.

 **oOo**

 _The sun, the heat. Mexico. Jessica._

 _Laughter._

 _Then the Twin Towers falling down on the TV screen, and John remembering – New York. Frank and Raimy were there. He didn't even have a mean to make sure they were alive, short of calling Marshal Patterson._

 _Jessica wasn't laughing anymore, and John couldn't help but to think about his family, back home, who might have been caught in the destruction. Frank who, if he wasn't dead or injured, was certainly dealing with the mess; he was a policeman, after all._

 _How old was Raimy this year? Thirteen years old._

 _John had just quit the army, and now that?_

 _He stood up from the bed, grabbed a shirt, and went in search of a phone. He needed to call Patterson, now. He needed to know if what was left of his family..._

 _He needed to know if there was anything left of his family, to begin with._

 _Then he'd decide if he was going back or if he was staying with Jessica._

 _The look she gave him, though, as he left the apartment... John had the feeling she already knew his decision, even if he, himself, didn't know what it would be yet._

 **oOo**

He had loved her, John remembered. A lot.

Not the only woman, but one of the few. Another one, perhaps, later on. He didn't remember yet.

He dressed himself, dried his hair – he'd have to get it cut soon. He had let it grow longer as he was supposed to infiltrate a group of lowlives, but the lowlives were dead, now, and it didn't look professional. Not that the CIA had a very strict dress code for its agents – too easy to notice – but still. This hair made him look ten years younger, and he didn't want his future partners to start with this impression of him.

Partners?

Ah, right. Kinnear had told him, last week, that his definitive assignment had been decided. SAD-SOG... Funny how a former cop could end up a governmental hitman. He'd meet his handler and his other partner as soon as this would be finished.

John combed the hair as he could, ignoring the bruise on his jaw, where he had taken a bad hit the night before.

A former cop became a CIA spy who plays a narcotics detective...

 **oOo**

 _John was frantic – or as frantic as people like him could get – that night, in the ER. Not many things could faze him, not after all the things he had seen as a cop, as a soldier, but a child in danger..._

 _Erin was his partner's daughter. Roger had called him, saying that his ex-wife was supposed to be home with their daughter, but no one was answering the phone, and he couldn't drop the job to go and check on them. So John had gone, and what he had found..._

 _Roger's ex had slipped in the kitchen, hit her head, and fallen unconscious. John had verified she was still alive, and called an ambulance, but it wasn't the only problem: Erin's asthma had been triggered into an attack because of the emotional shock, and the girl hadn't been able to indicate him where to find her inhaler, not in the state she was already in._

 _John might have considered it too much of a risk to move her mother himself when he had no medical clue of what it might result in, but the hospital was close from the woman's place. After a moment of panick, he had decided to get Erin there himself._

 _And there he was, waiting, praying for the girl to live. Roger was on his way to the hospital, and he had been told by a nurse that his partner's former wife wasn't in any danger anymore, but Erin... The Hospital staff had a hard time keeping her alive..._

 _He heard it sound and clear when they declared her gone._

 _Roger stumbled in the ER forty-seven seconds later, holding tight on the customized lighter his daughter had gotten him around the time John had made detective. The younger man had been at the couple's home when Erin had given it to her father. The girl had even taken the time to show off her gift to John even as she had been calling her father to come and see for himself._

 **oOo**

John left the bathroom, fresh and clean, but he wasn't feeling any better. These memories... Why did he have these memories? Wasn't there one happy moment worth remembering in his entire life?

He realized he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday morning, so he moved to the kitchen area of the motel, and looked in the cupboards. The only thing he didn't have to cook were cereals.

 **oOo**

 _U.S. Marshal Patterson was staring him down from his desk as if he could sense trouble radiating off him. John might have felt mildly insulted, if he hadn't been about to leave his entire life, his work, his family, his friends behind. Right now, he had other things to think about._

" _So, John... You realize you won't be able to work in law enforcement anymore, right?"_

 _John almost rolled his eyes._

" _I have some idea of how WITSEC works, yes, thanks. I'll find something, and if I don't... Well. I'm not asking you to give me another life, complete with a wife and three kids. I just want a new, clean identity, that O'Connor won't trace back to me."_

" _Unless you make a mistake."_

" _I won't."_

 _Patterson didn't look convinced, and John wondered how many times the older man had lost or almost lost a witness because they hadn't been able to keep themselves from contacting their family._

 _John wouldn't make that mistake. He'd rather know them away and alive than in danger because of him._

 _Who cared if it hurt him, as long as they stayed safe – or, as safe as a cop on the job could be..._

" _Right. So, just to be clear: a serial killer who happened to also be part of the irish mafia attacked you in your apartment, and you, you... slit his throat?"_

" _With a kitchen knife."_

" _With a kitchen knife. I don't think I've got this kind of case before. Anyway. As a consequence, his uncle, Peter O'Connor, leader of a small family, put a price on your head. Half a million dollars."_

 _John shrugged._

" _Which is why I'm here."_

" _Which is why you're here. Well. Congratulations. You're now John Rykes, bouncer in Seattle. Feel free to search for a better, discreet job. Rykes'll fit you perfectly, he's a stubborn bastard too."_

 **oOo**

That had been in 1993, John thought as he slowly swallowed his breakfast, and he was quite certain he hadn't stayed a bouncer long. Something about a fight in a bar? Taken in by the local PD, gotten in front of a judge when they had realized he was in WITSEC, Patterson arriving the next morning, very angry, and John telling him he was going to enlist, because why not?

Yeah... He had been very angry at the time, always trying to pounce on whoever looked at him sideways. Probably because it was the second time already his life was falling into pieces.

Well... John had gotten used to that, eventually.

He closed his eyes for a minute, remembering another woman he had loved, years ago...

Another woman he felt he had lost, too, even if he couldn't remember yet.

 **oOo**

 _Claire and him – don't forget, John, you're Tom Kubik for now – were playing pool in a bar, after his wife had won yet another case. John couldn't tell her who he really was, and he couldn't apologize for having married her without even telling her the truth, not yet, but soon. Only a day left, and he'd..._

 _Getting married while undercover. He didn't know what had gotten into him, but that was probably the most foolish thing he had ever done._

 _With Claire, everything was so..._

 _But John wasn't a fool. Each time he didn't have her right under his eyes, the reality of his situation came back to him. The problem wasn't there. The problem was that, each time he had her under his eyes, he forgot everything that made it a bad idea._

 _He loved her so much, he didn't even know what to do with these feelings – it could only end badly, he knew that. It was the exact same thing, with Jessica. He had gotten in over his head, and then, suddenly, a terrible event had reminded him that he wasn't allowed to get nice things._

 _It would probably happen again, with Claire._

 _John – Tom Kubik – got the ball in the pocket, just as he had said he would, and Claire laughed in disbelief._

" _That is not fair. You can't use your left hand. You're a mutant."_

 _A smile ghosted over his lips, as he remembered how exactly he had learned to use his left hand just as well as his right hand. Perhaps one day, he'd tell her..._

 _But that was a story for another time._

 **oOo**

John reached for his glass of water with his left hand, without even thinking about it. He stopped his movement for a moment, as he realized what he had just done, and shook his head. He hadn't even noticed, back in the old factory, but there had probably been times he had done just the same thing.

His memory loss hadn't taken away his unconscious habits, coordination and skills.

 **oOo**

 _Anthony was a childhood friend, whom John had met when he still lived in Puyallup, Washington, back when his father was alive. He was reminded of it as he met him again, this time in New Mexico, near Santa Fe. The man Anthony had grown into was a criminal..._

 _How did someone you only remembered by the foolish accidents and pranks of youth could become a lowlife? How was this Anthony, when the most vivid memory of him John had, was of the two of them holding for dear life as one of their excursions had turned into a very dangerous trip?_

 _They had survived together, and now John was using Anthony to get to a local crime boss, who would then get him to a CIA-wanted hitman._

 _It hurt, in a way John hadn't ever known before. And trust him, John knew a lot about hurting._

 _Anthony patted him on the back, obviously pleased to see him._

" _John Sullivan! I hadn't expected to see you ever again, but here we are!"_

 _John winced at the heads that turned to look at them as they heard Anthony._

" _Not that loud, Tony...! And call me Mitch Wozniak, now. That's what my fake driving license says."_

 _The other man took a step back, looked him from head to toe. He looked curious, and only barely fazed by the odd request. Of course it wouldn't seem weird to a criminal, of course..._

" _You're in trouble, Jo... Mitch?"_

 _John rolled his eyes, and ordered a beer._

" _Long story short, I had a little, ah, issue with the irish mob of New York a few years back, and since then, they've put a price on my head. Just enough for it to be dangerous even out of the city. So, you know, I'm being careful, and I'd appreciate if you were too..."_

 _Anthony gave him a long, understanding look, and John felt even more like shit for lying. It hadn't happened since quite some time, for him to feel his lies so much... But he had known Anthony when they were both children, and at the time, John hadn't ever felt the need to keep the truth quiet like he did now._

" _Alright, Mitch... Let's start again, then! I'm Anthony. Pleased to meet you."_

 **oOo**

Full, but feeling unsurprisingly empty, John washed his bowl and his glass.

He stared at the recipients as he did so, without really seeing them. There wasn't much to see, anyway – just like him. He was a tool, that got washed of his previous identities, of his lies and deceptions, each time someone needed him for something new.

He was just a tool, clean, but without much interest.

When you looked at him, at first, you couldn't see the remnants from his other lives. He hid them well – better than most.

But they were still there, and he knew it.

During his shower, he had seen the scars. Hidden under his clothes, usually, and not that many, but he knew most of his injuries had healed without leaving a trace. There were more, many more cracks in who he had been, than what was visible on his skin.

Each of his names was a scar, too. Only visible if you knew where to look, but still present in the minds of those he had met, talked to, shared a part of his life with.

Before disappearing.

 **oOo**

 _The accent was terrible, but the meaning was obvious._

 _And frankly, John didn't care._

 _Hurting him was only making him stubborn, in fact. Electricity hurt, sure._ Passer quelqu'un à la gégène _, they said in French, to speak of that particular form of torture._

 _Well,_ gégène _or not, John had no interest in answering. Besides, he was a stubborn bastard._

" _Your name."_

 _No answer._

 **oOo**

Perhaps he simply didn't have a name, at this point.

John went and sat back on the bed. He'd have to get his lighter back – he had kept it for Roger, if the man wanted it back, one day, but Roger hadn't wanted it, and John had kept it. Then he had had to leave, WITSEC and all that, and he had tried to give it back one last time, but Roger had looked him in the eyes, and had said that John deserved the lighter more than him.

John wasn't so sure of that, personally, but he had kept it. Perhaps, one day, he'd see Roger again, and the man would finally accept his daughter's gift back.

That is, if John wasn't killed beforehand.

 **oOo**

 _Kinnear let him finish speed-reading through the file he had given him a few minutes before. John knew he didn't look particularly convinced. He searched his pockets, and found the customized lighter he always carried around._

 _He glanced at the senior agent, who was probably wondering if he was planning to burn the file or something. John had to admit, it could look like that... But he wasn't a particularly pyromaniac individual. The lighter was for something else._

" _A problem, John?"_

 _Noncommittal snort, and then an answer._

" _Mitch Wozniak's backstory... Do you mind if I twist it a bit? I know a good reason why a perfect cop might suddenly want to go on a deep cover assignment, when he was perfectly happy with being a B &E detective."_

 _The flame of the lighter danced quietly... until John stopped it._

 _He couldn't believe he was going to use Roger's story to... But yes, he could. His own story wasn't one he wanted to share with the CIA more than necessary, and it wouldn't fit anyway._

" _Is that really necessary? I mean, you'll spend more time with the criminals, who won't hear a thing about Wozniak's blue past, than with the police department you'll be in contact with..."_

 _John shook his head, and pocketed the lighter again._

" _Oh, believe me, it matters. Narcotics detectives who go deep undercover all have reasons. They want the streets clean for their kids, one of their friends overdosed... or they don't have anything to lose anymore. Mitch Wozniak is divorced because of the job, and his daughter didn't survive her latest asthma attack. He doesn't have anything to lose, except himself, and he's about to try just that. To see how far he can go, before breaking."_

 _Just like John, in a way._

 _Kinnear gave him an odd look, but didn't comment._

 **oOo**

His back – not only his back, but mostly his back – ached. He turned on his stomach, hoping to relieve the pain. It made it a bit better...

But did it really matter?

John was alone, in an impersonal motel room in New Mexico, trying to remember things he didn't have anymore. People he couldn't see, jobs that weren't his, dreams which couldn't be found again.

 **oOo**

 _Frank was standing in the doorframe, looking astounded to see him again – John guessed that was fair. After all, he had left his twin brother behind without a word or a warning more than three years ago, and he hadn't written even once. Frank probably thought he was gone for good. Dead, perhaps._

 _Well he wasn't – but he had almost been, more than once, in fact._

" _Where the hell had you disappeared to, you freaking bastard?!"_

 _John smiled wrily at his brother, eyeing the police uniform and thinking he was never going to tell Frank where he had been, what he had been doing. Let him believe he had walked around the country, perhaps done some petty theft to live, but nothing grave. Let him believe that now, he was home, and he was going to live a full life._

 _He had wanted to join the police, years ago, after all. All he had to do was to complete his basic education – easy; John was hardly a fool – and enter the Academy._

 _Maybe, that way, he'd get to pay back his debt._

 _But he wasn't going to explain that to Frank. So he defused with a grin:_

" _I'm definitely the big brother."_

 _And indeed, not only was he the first of the twins, but he also had five good centimeters over his brother. Cheers for non-identical twins, please._

 **oOo**

The memory had him snort, even so many years later, even at something so trivial – Frank had given him a black eye, that day, by the way. John still wasn't sure why, between the joke and his refusal to elaborate on the three years he had spent away. Tough guess, really.

But he wasn't John Sullivan anymore, was he? He was John Rykes. The U.S. Marshals Service said so. He didn't have a brother, he didn't have a niece in New York, and no irish crime boss had put a price on his head.

He was just John Rykes, newly recruited by the CIA, having barely finished his first assignment.

 **oOo**

" _Shhh, Rykes... You might be super good with a gun, but I can assure you there's no way in hell you'll get all the targets in time."_

 _The other trainee at the Farm was a young kid, who hadn't been a marine for three years, then a cop for four years, then a soldier for three other years, a ranger for three years again, green beret for two years and delta force for four like John – now that he thought about it, he moved around a lot. Tommy couldn't understand yet._

 _Natasha and John shared a look – both former military, they knew better than the kid, and went back to the training exercise._

 _They put a hole in each target, without exception, and turned back with arched eyebrows at Tommy._

" _Well?"_

 _He still looked oddly smug, which gave it away. The kid really didn't get it; if you had a trick up your sleeve, you didn't go around telling everyone when it hadn't even happened yet._

 _John and Natasha looked back at the exercise – and yes, just as they had thought it had ended, just as they had looked elsewhere, one last target popped up._

 _Natasha swore – she had taken her gun in her left hand to rest the right one a bit, and now she couldn't fire in time..._

 _John, who had done the same, just rose his left hand, and fired._

 _Tommy was wide-eyed._

 _Bullseye._

 _Natasha laughed, and smacked him in the back._

" _You ambidextrous bastard! Come on, I'm hungry. And, Tommy? For that, you're paying."_

 **oOo**

With the end of their training at the Farm, Tommy had been sent to work on pretty standard missions. The kid had gotten good results, but nothing incredible. John doubted he'd see him again, unless at a desk job, in a few years, not particularly interesting or important.

Tommy, at least, would get to live old, unless some accident happened.

Natasha was somewhere in South Africa right now, living the spy dream – not, but they liked to pretend. No matter what she was really doing, it was certainly more glamourous than his memory loss, if anything.

James Bond was a lie, after all.

John had known for a long time.

 **oOo**

 _He watched as Claire left the small house she had rented for the duration of his trial._

 _Tom Kubik wasn't anymore – he had been killed by Ron Chapman. And Ron Chapman wasn't anymore – he had been kiled by a salvadoran rebel. John had made sure of that._

 _Claire was free of him, now, no one would go after her because of him ever again, and she wouldn't even grieve him._

 _Not with what he had made her believe._

 _Just another lie, yet again._

 _But this was the last time he made that error, of thinking that perhaps, he could get something good, if he tried hard enough._

 _The truth was, John simply had learned not to try anymore, because it never ended well. He had too many secrets, too many demons, too much blood on his hands, to live a life that would hold. All his names, all his identities, his many pasts only had one consequence, nowadays: they destroyed, slowly but surely, any newcomer amongst them, until there wasn't anything left of the name except a shadow._

 _It destroyed him a bit more each time – perhaps there was already nothing left to be destroyed. But, more importantly, it destroyed the people he befriended, the people he loved. Each time one of his names was felled, it wounded the ones he cared about too, when they learned that..._

 _He wasn't going to try anymore._

 **oOo**

Someone knocked on the door to the motel room, and John went to open it.

His memories... He was almost there. It was almost done. He was almost himself again.

He still didn't know who he was, though.

 **oOo**

 _A plane. Going back to his unit, in Afghanistan. Where he was supposed to be. Where he should have been to begin with, if he hadn't accepted Commandant Jarosz's task. Where, at least, he wouldn't have fallen in love, only to make her believe afterwards that he was a sociopathic murderer, because that was the only way to protect her._

 _Mario Quaggia, in the seat next to his, accompanying him back for whatever reason. The former green beret could as well just feel like it, for all John knew._

" _You'll get used to it, Rykes."_

 _No need to precise what Quaggia was talking about, of course. They both knew it._

" _I'd rather not, but I guess it's too late, now..."_

 _He already was._

" _Oh, it is. Guys like you, Rykes... In the end, you always leave the villain."_

 _Because you made them all think you were, because it would be easier for everyone, went unsaid._

 **oOo**

John opened the door. George Kinnear was on the other side, one eyebrow arched.

"You didn't check in yesterday."

John blinked.

"It was yesterday?"

The look the senior agent gave him was eloquent enough for no words to be needed. John let the man in, and closed the door. Kinnear went for a chair, John went back to his bed.

He had a rather nasty bruise on his ass, but he wouldn't say that to Kinnear.

"So, what was it about temporary memory loss, five or six cadavers, two of which burned to a crisp? I heard some strange things when I went by your temporary police department this morning."

"You heard it all, then. No point saying anything else."

There was a moment of silence, but John wouldn't let more info be probed out of him, not while he was in this state. If Kinnear wanted more details, he'd have to read his report.

John groaned at the very thought. Even as a cop, he had loathed the paperwork...

"What about Blas?"

 **oOo**

" _We'll be going to see someone in three days, you and me, Wozniak. Fourteen miles off the old road where we picked up the drugs two weeks ago. Be sure to be free that night."_

 **oOo**

John didn't answer right away, trying to remember which shipment of cocaine Burian had been talking about – right. That one. There had been only one viable place to hide around there.

"Got him. Almost. Incomplete location. But the place is closed off, so it shouldn't be too hard to find Blas, as long as someone stays behind to watch the entrance."

Kinnear sighed, reassured that Stefan Burian had let go of the only secret that interested the CIA before being turned into a human torch – already dead at the time, but still...

"Good. We'll conduct the search tomorrow, with you heading the reconnaisance team. You deserve it. Then, you leave for the airport. Your definitive assignment to SAD-SOG has been approved. You'll meet your new team during your mission. He's an asshole, she's a psycho. You'll like them."

John didn't deign to answer that. What could he have said, anyway?

"Smile, John. You get to leave the hero, for once."

Except John Rykes – Mitch Wozniak wasn't a hero. Especially not in this story.


	8. Just a bit too late for it to matter

_Iris' father is going through old Academy graduation pictures, in search of a familiar face, some time after John's disappearance._

* * *

 **Just a bit too late for it to matter**

Iris watched silently as her father went through a bunch of Academy graduation group pictures, from years ago. She didn't know what he was looking for, or rather, who he was looking for, but she knew it had been gnawing at him for some time already. Since the meal with John, actually.

Iris sighed. If her father was looking for a proof of John's identity, he wouldn't find it there – why would he be looking for one, she didn't know. Not only did Iris had doubts John had actually gone through six months at the Academy, but even if he had, it wasn't in New York. His file said he had transferred from Chicago after some of the people he had put away tried some rather unfriendly courses of action against him. So technically, Iris surmised, should Bill Campbell search for visual proof, he'd have to go through the Chicago police academy records, not the New York ones.

Or perhaps her father was just looking at graduation pictures for another reason. Iris was well aware that everything reminded her of John lately – certainly because the man had been declared missing since the catastrophe with the missile hit right in the city, and Iris knew better than to hope for John to have been anywhere else than right in the middle of it.

She didn't know how, she didn't know why, but she was certain he was dead. When she had heard that John Riley had disappeared... She had gone to ask Lionel Fusco, his partner, but the man wouldn't look her in the eyes, and while she believed him when he said he didn't know what had happened to John, she could also tell he had a pretty good idea; he just wasn't certain of it.

It made John's refusal to go anywhere further with her take a whole new meaning, and Iris wasn't sure she liked where it went. Since the beginning of their sessions, she had noticed that John had very little self-esteem. Of course, he knew what he was worth skill-wise, and intellectually, but he didn't believe that, despite his value as an asset, he was valuable as a human being too. Or if he did, he still thought himself less valuable than about everyone else – irredeemable criminals asides.

John wasn't, per se, suicidal. Just self-sacrificial.

When he had told her he couldn't stay with her... Iris hadn't believed it, but now she could see... He had known all along he wouldn't survive whatever it was that had happened last month. He may not have known when it'd happen, how much time he had left, but he had been able to tell that, whatever it was that he was doing, it'd cost him his life.

Iris wouldn't say it hadn't bothered him. She was convinced that John wanted to live, deep down.

But he didn't want it strong enough to keep him from sacrificing himself.

She took the empty plates from the table – family dinner – to bring them to the kitchen, but just as she started walking, her father grinned in victory.

"Aha! I knew I'd find you there, Sullivan!"

Then, looking up at her, Bill Campbell gestured for his daughter to forget the plates for a moment, and come and look at the photos with him.

"What is it about, Dad?"

Iris noticed that the pictures he was looking at were old, way too old for him to be looking for John. During their meal together, her father had asked him how long he had been on the job, and the answer had been five years. These graduation ceremonies dated back to at least twenty years.

What had her father been looking for?

The former policeman pointed at a face, on a picture from 1989, and Iris did a double-take.

"Officer John Sullivan, at the time. I knew I had seen him somewhere before, but I couldn't place him... Until I realized he had changed his name."

"But that's not... How?"

Her father was right, this was definitely John. Younger, of course – just over twenty, she guessed – smiling, too. Already a bit broken inside – freaky how you could tell even from an old photo, when you knew what to look for – but nothing like today.

"WITSEC, I think. A local mob boss had put a price on his head. But O'Connor died nine years ago... I guess he got out of WITSEC and decided to come back. His brother's a cop too..."

Bill Campbell showed her another picture, from 1986; Frank Sullivan's graduation ceremony.

He hadn't ever told her about his brother. Iris realized what her father hadn't, then: John might have come back, but he had never allowed himself to be back.

And now, it was too late.


	9. Heroes Dreams

_2006, USA. John Reese just came back from his latest mission, and Kara and Mark won't leave him alone with that recording of the interrogation with the ATF agent. Apparently John makes more than a decent terrorist. Thanks so much for the compliment._

 _Or, Carroll Oerstadt is yet another of the identities taken on by John Reese during his time for the CIA ( see movie Deja Vu, without the whole time travel thing )_

* * *

 _By the way, I'm complaining about "Carroll Oerstadt". It's a shitty name, even more so when you have to write it several times. And "Minuti" should definitely have two "t"._

* * *

 **Heroes Dreams**

When John got back to his team, he was unfortunate enough to be greeted by his own voice – which didn't really sound like him, at the moment – saying things he never thought, things no one should say out loud... as well as things he had thought at the moment, things he still thought. Lies, and truth at the same time.

" _He... I was about to burn him and he was waking up, you know? I mean, I'm not cruel."_

Lie. Truth. Truth.

John closed the door behind him. Mark looked up from the video recording of "Carroll Oerstadt"'s interrogation by ATF Agent Doug Carlin, and smirked at him. Basically saying "See, Reese, I knew you could do it." Damn pleased with himself.

John wasn't pleased with himself, him.

"Stop watching that."

Kara looked up too, and smirked just as much as Mark had.

"Oh come on, John, we're just appreciating your performance undercover. I mean, did you hear yourself speaking? You make a particularly convincing terrorist. Carlin was clearly persuaded you were a psychopath, and I must say, if I didn't know you beforehand, I'd think just as much."

Then she fast-fowarded to the part of the video she felt illustrated her words the best.

" _I told you earlier I have a destiny, a purpose. Satan reasons like man, but God thinks of eternity. Well, I prostrate myself before a world that's going to hell in a handbag, because in all eternity, I am here and I will be remembered. That's destiny. A bomb has a destiny, a predetermined fate set by the hand of its creator. And anyone who tries to alter that destiny will be destroyed. Anyone who tries to stop it from happening will cause it to happen. And that's what you don't understand. We're not here to coexist. I'm here to win."_

John scowled slightly, but made sure it seemed as if he was merely irritated by the "compliment", rather than with anything else.

Mark and Kara weren't fooled, though.

"No point complimenting John for now, Kara. It's obvious he isn't yet completely on board. It's been, what, less than a year that he's with the CIA? And it's only his third mission with us, as a SAD-SOG agent. He still has illusions. Heroes dreams."

The first mission had been in Hungary, and the first thing he had been asked to do was to take care of the corpses of two CIA agents, just like them, who had apparently been paid to let a terrorist escape. No fingertips, no teeth. Nothing to identify the traitors.

The second mission was a story he'd rather not talk about.

The third mission, including Carroll Oestardt, had started two months ago. Kara, Mark and him had been tasked with taking care of a militia leader who had started to dream big... Just big enough that someone higher up had decided it was time to do away with him. Kara had killed the man, but it hadn't ended here. Just to be sure, they had taken a look at the others members of the militia while observing the leader, and somehow, it had led them to Caroll Oestardt and his terrorist attempt, even if the man wasn't part of the militia per se.

Kara had been amused to see that John and Oestardt were similarly built, and looked somewhat alike – not really, it wasn't as if people who knew them could get confused, but the overall descriptions of their physical features did fit.

John hadn't particularly appreciated the comparison.

They had tipped off the ATF, but something had gone wrong. Agent Lawrence Minuti had gone alone to check out the potential terrorist, instead of taking his partner with him, and had gotten himself shot.

But he hadn't been dead yet.

John had followed Oerstadt to his bait camp / hideout, and seeing the mad man start to drench the agonizing agent in fuel oil, he had killed him. A single bullet to the head.

Oerstadt had fallen to the ground, as dead as possible, and John had rushed to Lawrence Minuti's side, just as Kara's and Mark's car arrived on the property. Kara had helped him to keep the ATF agent alive, while Mark reported to their boss, asking what they were supposed to do now.

John had thought that was it, that there wasn't anything else to do except call the cops and drop the wounded agent at a hospital, before moving onto another mission.

It hadn't been the case.

Mark had hung up, a thoughtful look on his face, had stared at Oerstadt's corpse for a moment, and had joined them in the cabin where they had carried Lawrence Minuti. There he had looked at the bomb-in-the-making that Oerstadt had almost finished, and finally back at John.

John had had a feeling he wasn't going to like it.

He hadn't been wrong.

The CIA wanted someone dead – what else is new? – in the federal jail of Florence, Colo, supermax section. Getting someone in there was a hassle, apparently, but Carroll Oestardt... Well, a terrorist who tried to bomb a ferry, with possibly a few hundreds of victims? Sure to end up there.

Of course, there had been the small issue that Oerstardt was dead, thanks to John – John wasn't sorry. Except John looked somewhat like Oerstadt, and it wouldn't be particularly difficult to mess with the man's papers and digital files, to get the "right" picture on it. A picture of John's face, say.

The plan wasn't overly complicated. The idea was to go on with Oestardt's plan, only making sure that the bomb wouldn't actually explode, since, you know, that would kill more than a bunch of people. Steal a car, tie up the owner so that she couldn't report it until it was too late – Claire Kuchever, the unlucky girl, would have a few bruises for a time, but nothing life-threatening, or else John wouldn't have continued, and Kara knew that – and get it on the ferry with the bomb inside. Then, get John arrested, sent to Florence, Colorado, kill the target, and "Carroll Oerstadt" would disappear in the system.

John had argued that to make it believable, they'd have to make the bomb perfectly, only without him starting the timer, because he'd be arrested before that. That it was dangerous, since, you know, something could happen and make the exploding device, well, explode, even without the timer.

Kara hadn't said anything, but had squinted at Mark.

Their handler had shrugged, and smirked at John that he trusted him for that not to happen.

Fortunately, things had gone according to plan, and no one else had died during the mission – except Mr Supermax, but well, he had been a target, not collateral damage. John had played "Carroll Oerstadt" perfectly and gotten himself a life sentence, Kara had driven Lawrence Minuti to a hospital without giving a name then had gone to knock out Claire Kuchever, and Mark had tipped off Minuti's partner, Doug Carlin.

The ATF, the FBI and about everyone else thought they had been lucky the fuel oil bomb hadn't been activated yet when they had found it, because it was very well made. They had been, so to say, tipped off just in time.

Claire Kuchever had been found, alive and mostly well, a few hours later. When Doug Carlin had interrogated John, sorry, "Carroll Oerstadt", they still thought Minuti was dead. They had seen the blood and the fuel oil at the cabin. John hadn't told them otherwise. Minuti woke up six days later at the hospital, and called his partner, but it didn't matter at this point. John had already been sent to supermax.

If he hadn't felt well using an innocent woman, knowing that Kara would probably do whatever was necessary to make it look real enough without actually killing her, John hadn't felt particularly concerned with breaking Mr Supermax's neck. After all, the man was a killer. Just like him.

More than just like him, apparently. A former CIA agent who had defected for a more lucrative job. A traitor – John wasn't one, of course, but it meant Mr Supermax could have been a colleague, had he not made that choice.

The target was dead now, and John was John Reese again, back with his team.

If they could only stop watching that recording.

Mark was wrong, though. John hadn't had heroes dreams in a long time. Truth be told, he had belonged to the darker side of necessity for years already. Undercover ops, getting rid of the worst people... Accidentally getting sucked into events that could only end badly, too. He knew all that.

Perhaps better than Mark Snow did.

John had been honest with ATF Agent Doug Carlin on one point at least: he had been sitting in that interrogation room for a reason. Perhaps not destiny, but a purpose, yes. A mission.


	10. It's all about priorities

_Dominic caught up with John, Elias and Marconi in the office, but he's not alone... And there are some things that must remain secret. At any cost. John will see to it._

* * *

 _... is a canon character death the death of a canon character or the canon death of a character ( which, obvious, is canon too )?_

 _Anyway, here is a... randomly violent... thing. ( murder, brief torture, blood, gunshots, character deaths, and damn, did I just kill the only female character in the fic? Oops. )_

 _Ep 4x09, The Devil You Know, going slightly AU, because John's a freaking killer and you all tend to forget that ( I still love him though )_

* * *

 **It's all about priorities**

When Dominic pushed the door, he wasn't alone – of course, his lieutenant, Link, and a few muscle guys were there, but it wasn't about them.

Oh no, it wasn't.

They all stood with a weapon strained on the others, John and Marconi, Dominic's goons – all of them except Elias himself since the man didn't use weapons, Dominic who wanted to assert his authority and importance.

And a woman, older than them all. Nearly sixty, John'd say – if he hadn't known for sure the moment he looked at her, which he had – with pale skin, greying dark hair, blue eyes, and freckles.

The woman might not have had a gun, but her eyes were strained on John nonetheless. And while John was giving the other enemies in the room enough of his attention no matter what, he still was more... interested... in her than in the other threats.

Interested was certainly not the word.

John, as usual, decided it was better not to say anything, and see what she'd do – what she'd say. He had always done so, and mostly it had kept him from revealing too much about his missions, his identity, his secrets. Wait for the others to tell him what they know, rather than telling them something they might not have known to begin with by trying to figure out how much exactly they did know. Because even if they said they knew enough about him, that they knew everything...

It was rarely the truth. And John'd rather have them think they did, than to hint that they had missed something. If they thought they knew everything, they wouldn't search for what they had missed. Which greatly reduced the odds of anything he wished to keep secret from being found out.

John had worked like that with Finch, when they had first began working together. When they hadn't trusted each other yet.

As a matter of fact, John was almost certain Finch still didn't know absolutely everything about him. That his friend knew about everything from the moment John had joined the army... but not so much about the time before that. When Finch had admitted not knowing the exact reason John had enlisted... John hadn't told him that what he had said to Jack Salazar wasn't the complete truth.

It wasn't a matter of not trusting the other man. It was simply a question of priorities: Finch didn't need to know what had come before WITSEC, before John Rykes, whereas John's last remaining family did need the protection. Not that Finch would have told anyone... But when one person knows one thing, others start to hear about it too, even if by accident. John had enough enemies not to want to potentially unleash them on his brother's family.

Besides, Carter would have eventually found out, one way or another, and the detective would have insisted for John to go and see Frank, to let him know he was back and well. Then, when John would have refused, she'd probably have made it so that they'd stumble into each other anyway... She'd do it thinking it was for the better, but she would be wrong.

Because Carter had no idea how much it would endanger everyone, if even only one of their enemies heard about the Man in a Suit's brother.

And this elder woman, standing behind Dominic with a small, unpleasant smile on her lips, this woman was one of these people, even if no one else in the team knew about her. This woman, while moderately dangerous herself, would pass on the information about Detective Riley to people who wouldn't hesitate to go after Frank, Julia, and Raimy. To Dominic, to...

Perhaps all the way back to Samaritan – one person hears something, says it again, and soon enough everyone know about it. If the woman was really here for the reason he thought...

He might have to clean up later. After all, three could keep a secret if two were dead, wasn't that right? John didn't particularly feel like quoting Benjamin Franklin, and through him Greer, but if he wasn't left with any other choice...

It wasn't only about protecting Frank and his family, even if that reason alone would have assured his decision. It was also about making sure that John's brother wouldn't be used against him, against Finch, Fusco, Shaw and Root as a consequence, too. It was about keeping John Riley and John Reese separate from John Sullivan. Because if Samaritan eventually understood that John Riley was John Sullivan, he might link back together John Sullivan and John Reese... And so Greer might be able to tell that John Riley was John Reese, even if Samaritan itself couldn't thanks to the Machine's and Root's intervention.

Killing the woman would be about protecting everyone – it wasn't as if she was an innocent either.

Killing the woman only might not suffice, John mused as he surveilled the room.

Finch's voice spoke up in his ear, jolting John out of his homicidal considerations... for now.

" _Mr Reese, I'm afraid Detective Fusco won't be able to come and help."_

Ah. Well, John thought as he narrowed his glare at the woman while Dominic did his speech about power and dominance and whatnot. At least that will make dealing with this easier, if he managed to take them all out. Which would be more difficult, though, as Marconi and him were alone against... Four armed guys in the building, possibly a few others waiting downstairs in case someone tried to get away. Plus Dominic, who was dangerous enough even without a gun.

The elder woman had probably a poisoned dagger or something of the kind in her boots.

But still, it was better if Lionel wasn't here to see him kill her. Plausible deniability, amongst other things – like, not explaining why John absolutely needed to get rid of her, definitely, more than anything else.

Dominic stopped talking for a moment, and looked at John – at the intense staring contest between the officially-a-detective-but-really-so-much-more-than-that pain in the ass and Annie O'Connor.

"Detective Riley. I am curious, I must say, about your position in all this. Which is why I tried to learn some things about you. Infortunately, no one know anything except that you like to kneecap criminals and that you were a Narc for a few years, most of which in Chicago, before transferring to New York and after that to Homicide."

Had John not been planning seventeen ways to get rid of O'Connor's lady if what he was suspecting turned out to be right, he might have quipped something about how it's always better to lose a kneecap than your life. Then he'd have added that he could demonstrate the life-taking event on one of Dominic's goons, then the kneecapping of Dominic himself.

John switched off his comm. He didn't want Finch to hear what he might be about to do.

Also, he didn't want his friend to try and talk him out of it. Just as with Fusco, he'd have to explain himself, to tell the whole truth about him, about his past, about the few secrets Finch hadn't yet uncovered about him.

It wasn't that John was against the others knowing. If one day it became relevant, he'd tell them. If Frank's number, for example, came out, he'd tell them. If Samaritan found out about his remaining family in a fashion he hadn't thought about, he'd tell them. But for now, he'd rather make sure it never had to become relevant. And the best way to do that was to keep it a secret.

Dominic wasn't finished, though.

"Then one day, there's this woman who comes to me, interested in the questions I've been asking. She's not anyone, no; she's the widow of a former crime boss, an irish man by the name Peter O'Connor, and she knows a few things about how New York was divided twenty years ago."

Elias frowned, his eyes on John, as he wondered what Annie O'Connor – he knew the woman well enough, too, and he didn't like the small smile on her face one bit – could have known about "John Riley", that he didn't know.

Elias had been there too, twenty years ago.

Marconi too, for the matter. And Elias' right-hand man watched as the detective / vigilante / Man in a Suit / probably-very-lethal-man visibly relaxed his stance. Or, so it seemed. Anthony Marconi had met enough experienced killers to be able to tell when someone is even more about to commit a murder than before, and to do so, pretends to relax.

John was wondering how Annie O'Connor had guessed... Or if she had really recognized him – probable, but you never know. She might not tell Dominic, too, to be able to have him killed herself, even if she had recognized him – which would be easier to deal with, in fact, since he'd only have to deal with one corpse.

But that, that was considering he could be a lucky man. Which John wasn't.

It was more likely that the woman had already told Dominic who John was, and had only come here to confirm. That the Brotherhood's boss had someone watching John's family, right now, or perhaps even threatening them. That'd gave Dominic power over him, and that'd start O'Connor's vengeance.

Then again, Finch hadn't received Frank's number, or any other number from John's estranged family. The only number today had been Elias. And abducting or otherwise threatening someone from John's family would have definitely ended up in death.

You didn't just go and abduct a cop to let them walk free afterwards.

Maybe she hadn't told Dominic yet. Or, at least, not the details. Not the things that'd have allowed the man to find out who John Riley really was, without her help.

Keeping her cards close to her chest, then. Annie O'Connor knew how to play with power.

The question being, how much longer would she keep everything to herself?

John had thirteen bullets left in his gun. More than enough to decimate every single soul who might tattle in this room. But only one gun, and the others too had weapons. John couldn't be sure he'd walk out of here unscathed – or that Elias and Marconi would, for the matter – and he couldn't be sure none of the criminals in this room would run away before he was finished if things went badly.

...If he died here, knowledge of his estranged family would do Dominic no good.

But it could be a problem where Samaritan's agents were concerned.

He needed a better way, with better odds, to end it all, shall it come to that.

Dominic turned to look at Annie O'Connor.

"Well? Is he who you thought?"

The woman smiled fully, now. She knew.

Of course she knew. John had aged twenty years, give or take, but he still looked like himself. Older, hardened, perhaps, and much less broody – yes, no matter what Root and Shaw may think, he was, overall, less grumpy than two decades ago... or at least he looked the part.

But still John Sullivan. Very much John Sullivan, in fact.

The hair was grayer.

No one had noticed, so far, because John made it a point to keep away from the people who had been more than mere acquaintances, people who could tell who he was at first glance. If he crossed path with one of those people while working a number, he did his best to be even more discreet.

New York was a large city, of course. He rarely had to be that careful.

This time it wasn't even about being careful anymore. This time, he had been made so beautifully he could just shoot himself in the temple, save the others the time to try and save him.

...Or he could get rid of the threat.

O'Connor walked around him in a circle, her eyes a display of amusement and vengeful anger even if the rest of her face told nothing of the rage she was certainly feeling.

As if she had any right to be angry at him for what he had done.

If anything, John was the one with a right to be wrathful – he had been, years ago, and it had ended in what was fueling the current situation. It had ended with blood on his hands, a corpse in his kitchen, a price on his head, and a new identity courtesy of the US Marshals.

John was really considering a remake for the blood and the corpse, right now. Though there might be more than only one cadaver by the end of this story.

The elder woman smirked, and turned back to look at Dominic.

John, sensing the big revelation coming, lowered his gun. Let them think he was giving up. Let them think he was considering to negotiate. Let them think whatever they wanted, as long as they didn't think him to be that much of a menace anymore.

Marconi looked at him funnily as John changed hands, now holding his gun in his left hand – not quite the same meaning as if he had seathed it again, but definitely a sign.

"You see, Dominic, I never thought I'd see this man again. I mean, until my husband's death, his head was worth half a million dollars. The Marshals had him relocated, whole new name and identity, and even when Peter tried to bribe a Marshal and get his new identity, his paper file turned out incomplete. No way to find him. Sullivan had completely disappeared."

Yeah, that kind of had been the point of tampering with the files.

Dominic eyed John thoughtfully, as did Elias, for that matter. They seemed to be considering what exactly Annie O'Connor's words were implying – so far, John'd have said he was one of Paul O'Connor's enemies, or perhaps one of his men who'd have turned traitor, if he didn't know any better.

After all, O'Connor was an irish mob boss, and John's last name was Sullivan. He could have been an irish gangster, for all they knew.

Speaking of which, the mention of his original name wasn't something John could let pass. It wasn't the moment, yet, to get rid of them all – they weren't distracted enough. But now, he was certain of it: he'd have to kill to keep his family safe.

He wouldn't, if the people in the room with him were innocents. But they weren't, and while John was all for giving people a second chance, these people certainly weren't likely to accept it. And wasn't it what he did, anyway? Trading a life to protect another?

Frank's life was definitely worth a few murders.

"But a few months ago, I heard about a homicide detective who did things however he wanted, whenever he felt like it. Not much to go by, I know, and the name wasn't the same, and WITSEC wasn't supposed to let him do the same job again, but John Sullivan had always been stubborn. And while I can't say he used to kneecap people back then, John Sullivan wasn't afraid to dirty his hands with the blood of others if the situation asked for it. Not corrupt, no, and certainly not a criminal, but a dangerous man, certainly. More likely to follow the spirit of the law than the letter of the law. Not quite the kind of man the police prides itself in having, but certainly the kind of man who did what the others wouldn't dare if it was necessary."

There was a certain tinge in the way Annie O'Connor said the words "blood" and "necessary". A nuance that spoke of her disdain – a disdain that John shared, only his was towards her, towards the people who thought they had a right to resent him for what he had done, when their nephew had been the one who had started it all.

Sure, John had gotten his vengeance when Sean O'Connor had died by his hand, but it wouldn't have happened if the man hadn't been a freaking serial killer in the first place. It wouldn't have happened, either, if Annie's nephew hadn't gone to John's place during the night to try and murder him before he could arrest him. It wouldn't have happened, if the Nightingale Killer hadn't taken John's mother when he and his brother were thirteen years old.

It was the problem, with criminals – not only criminals, but it showed more often in people who lived constantly at odds with the law.

Most of them refused to see that whatever happened to them was mostly their own fault. That they had made the choices which had led them there. And when someone they cared about died because of their activities, they refused to acknowledge that they had accepted the danger the very moment they decided they'd rather shoot someone in the face than work honestly.

Annie O'Connor's hatred was visible on her face as she walked closer to John, the two of them almost face to face now – except that John was about five inches taller than her.

John took a step back.

"Tell me, Detective Sullivan... Does your brother know you are back in town?"

John recognized the threat instantly.

As did Elias, Marconi, Link, and Dominic. They stared, realizing what O'Connor's words meant – the leverage they could get once they'd have found John Sullivan's brother.

It had gone long enough.

John shot Annie O'Connor in the head without remorse, without so much as a twitch of his lips as warm blood splattered his face – he was still holding his gun in the wrong hand, but the facts were, John had no wrong hand. He favored his right hand only because people would expect him to, and because there was no point advertising that he was ambidextrous.

There was a moment of silence, after the shocking sound of the gunshot. The body started to fall down, the hole in her head suddenly real, deadly – lethal. Dominic's goons finally reacted, firing several shots at John – emptying their magazine. Good.

John grabbed O'Connor's body before it fell to the ground, used it as a human shield – at this point, she wasn't going to mind. Not big enough to protect him completely, of course, but better than nothing. He fired back at the two hired men, choosing to hope none of them would hit him seriously so that he could aim properly.

Two bullets later, they had matching holes in their foreheads.

John, as for him, had a graze on his right cheek, but Annie O'Connor had taken the brunt of the gunfire. As he let her body finally hit the floor, John could already see three large, bloody holes in her clothes, and he'd bet there were others, hidden from view right now.

Someone moved on his right, and John immediately strained his gun on Marconi.

Scarface held his hands up, his own weapon hanging down; he was simply making sure that Link, whom he had shot while John played human target, was as dead as he looked. Nothing threatening, I assure you.

John didn't lower his Sig Sauer right away, his eyes following Marconi's hand as it went down to check Link's pulse. Definitely dead. Marconi put his gun down on the floor, stood up on his feet again, and took a step back – between John and Elias, though.

Not certain of John's intent, then.

John finally turned to look at Dominic – wounded, on the ground, but alive. The wannabe mob boss had a bullet in his side – one of John's too. A shame. He had been aiming at the stomach, but the man had moved a bit to the right. Oh well. This wound would do well enough.

John just wanted to make sure that O'Connor hadn't talked to anyone else about "John Sullivan".

Then Dominic would have to die.

The man might have survived if he had taken a weapon too. Now it was too late – it had been too late the moment he had thought John would let him get away with threatening his family. John had seen it in the younger man's eyes, just a few seconds before he put a bloody hole in Annie O'Connor's head. The glint. The willingness to try.

A reason to kill.

John pushed the four other weapons in the room asides, far away from Elias, Marconi or Dominic. Then he put his own gun away, this time – still ready to get it back and shoot Dominic in the throat, should the need arise. Why the throat? Why not? The man had killed more than one person, he had caused more than one death. He didn't particularly deserve to die a clean death, nor did it need to be spectacularly cruel.

The moment he got close to Dominic, the man tried to grab his head, possibly to break his neck. John got a hold of the wounded man's right arm when his hand got too close to his face, and twisted. At the same time, he aimed for the gunshot that Dominic was hiding with his other hand. The criminal instinctively reached out to stop the pain from the twisted arm – John pushed his thumb inside the bleeding wound.

Dominic cried out, but quickly got his countenance back. Then again, that was probably all the man had left right now – the pain would prevent him from trying anything, and should he still try, well... John had no qualms twisting his finger around the injury.

The scream died down, and the man gave John a dark, promising look. The kind that said he was going to suffer for this. John didn't particularly care. After all, it wasn't as if he intended to let Dominic – an enemy who knew his original name, who knew he had a brother, here, in NYC – live to hold this promise.

Because John was a "good guy", his enemies tended to forget – not to realize, even – what he could do, with the right incentive.

Their loss.

"Is there anyone else who knows something, anything, about me and my family, Dominic?"

Riley's tone was flat, cold, unforgiving – not particularly cruel, though... simply, uncaring – and the younger man didn't miss the hidden meaning. He hadn't realized yet who exactly John Riley was... He still had no idea, but he could see what the man was, beneath the benevolent attitude.

It wasn't that Riley / Sullivan / whatever-his-name liked doing what he did... but he didn't mind doing what was necessary, as O'Connor had said. And even the things he minded, he'd do them if there was no other choice.

Riley definitely saw his brother's protection as worthy of being just as much of a monster as the ones he protected him from.

Dominic spat at the detective, and the man twisted his thumb in the wound. The younger man felt something tearing apart, without being able to tell what exactly. It hurt like a bitch.

John had the tip of his finger on the bottom of the bullet – just a little push, and it'd go deeper inside. A rotating motion would be even better, but he wasn't sure he could actually do that without putting two fingers in. He could feel the cold metal, so different from the sloshy flesh and the warm blood. Contrast.

He didn't like causing pain, never had, but if Dominic didn't want to speak...

"Who, Dominic?"

The big man muffled a scream, and John pushed harder.

"No one! She hadn't even told me your name beforehand! She just told me she had gotten a look at you from afar, and she was almost certain you were 'him', but she' have to check, and if I wanted to know, I had to bring her to you!"

John watched the criminal's face, assessing the truth of his words – Kara had always been the one doing the torture, but John had been the one concluding whether or not they were being lied to. Easy, really, when in such a situation. John was good at telling a liar apart – knowing what kind of lies, relevant or not to the investigation, was yet another story. People lied all the time, sometimes even without really meaning to.

"Good."

Dominic tried to lunge at him when he removed his finger from the wound, but he was weakened, and while the younger man was big and bulky, John was still strong enough to hold him off, especially in this state.

John took a step back. Considered.

No strangulation; Dominic was too large and strong for it to be efficient quickly. A bullet wound would be a problem with ballistic, but it wasn't as if the man didn't already have one of John's bullets in his body. Then again, it wasn't as if John had never taken bullets out of his victims.

Oh well. He'd just have to make the bodies disappear. Or, at least, to destroy them well enough for it to be very difficult to deduce anything post-mortem. Like, oh yeah, that's Dominic and his goons, but apart from that, man...? Gunshots, probably, but no promise.

Still...

John got his gun out, pointed it at the younger man, but didn't shoot right away. Instead, he bent down – his eyes still on Dominic, because you never know – and picked up Link's weapon.

"Wait, wait, wait, what are you going to...!"

The shot resounded in the old building; John surmised the other thugs downstairs were thinking that was the sound of his, or Elias', death. They wouldn't imagine that Dominic could possibly lose, they wouldn't dare come up without being told to. After a time, perhaps they'd come, but not right away. Then, at some point, the police would arrive... He had to get his bullets back before that happened. But first...

John looked at Elias and Marconi as he took out a sharp blade. No time to lose, certainly, because he didn't particularly want to explain to IA why "Detective Riley" was turning a crime scene into... another kind of crime scene entirely. Multitasking.

"Because I am willing to give people a second chance, they tend to forget what I am capable of."

Elias' upper lip twitched, his eyes fixed on John's hands, expertly extracting one bullet after another.

"Clearly."

"Because I don't try to kill you the moment things go a bit awry doesn't mean I'm not capable, I hope you'll remember that, Elias. It's just that my priority isn't usually to kill you, but to keep the body count as low as possible. It's all a question of priorities; try not to kill anybody, but try to stay alive first; try to stay alive, but try to save the innocents first; try to save the innocents, but try to protect the ones you care about first. Obviously, if you screw with my priorities, keeping you alive too drops lower on the scale."

John looked around, searching for the bullets that had gone in and out of his victims' heads.

"I wouldn't want to have to kill you, Elias."

The mob boss smiled thinly. Then he headed to the safe he had in the wall, to John's surprise.

"I wouldn't want you to kill me either. Now, what do you think about a destructive fire?"

* * *

 _I'm pretty sure Elias had two codes for his exploding safe: one that went boom immediately, and one with a timer._


End file.
